23: Return
by Math Girl
Summary: This story takes place after Relative Motion, in a renormalized and slightly altered time line. The Ares III crew have returned from Mars, weddings are planned and trouble soon arises in the form of weaponised alien bacteria. Edited and completed.
1. 1: Return

Edits continue.

**23: Return**

_Manhattan, NY, the Four Seasons Restaurant, around lunch time-_

The name 'Tracy' precluded reservations. All Scott had to do, once Fermat, Alan and Brains had left LaGuardia for Wharton, was to show up at the restaurant's private, VIP door. Admittance and fawning service were a foregone conclusion.

Cindy Taylor joined him there a little afterward, being in town on the business of chasing scandal. To his eye, she was beautiful; glowing with diffused light, surrounded by soft music, tinkling cutlery and hushed conversations, with a white marble pool and spreading tree just behind her.

Of course, he'd have found his fiancée attractive had she stood knee-deep in rushing mud, toting a heavy rucksack, with twigs and briars in her hair, or fresh-tousled from bed. Having seen her that way, he knew.

She'd taken the trouble to look nice for him, though. Her dark hair was piled up, and she'd put on a silky red cocktail dress. Very pretty.

Scott was conservatively dressed in a tailored grey suit, white shirt and blue tie because… other than his various uniforms… these were pretty much the only clothes he understood how and when to wear. Clothing didn't matter, though; not today.

He had a pricey ring in his pocket, and he wanted to set a date. He wanted to marry her on the island, just as soon as John was released from quarantine.

"It's going to be great, Hon," he told her, all boyish enthusiasm and fighter pilot good-looks. "John and his wife can make things official at the same time, and then we can get started on a family, too. He's one up on me in the kid department, but…"

"_Whoa_. Back that train up, fella."

Cindy, her expression hardening, pulled her hands free of his and leaned back in her chair, charm bracelet jangling discordantly.

"Marriage, okay. _You,_ absolutely. Kids… no way in hell. I'm not ready to sacrifice my career and figure to enter the wonderful world of Tracy brood mares."

His gut-shot look must have hit home, or something, because she softened a little, reaching across the pale linen tablecloth to pat his clenched hand.

"Look, Scott… I love you, and I want to stay with you (officially, or as a best friend with benefits, whatever works) but… I'm just _not_ mommy material, understand? I have a job and a life. I'd like to keep them."

Scott cleared his throat, gulping two fingers of scotch from a crystal tumbler to buy himself a little time. He felt all at once as cold and perplexed as an orphaned seal cub.

_No kids…?_

He wanted to talk to her, to explain how important it was that someday, someone of his should climb onto his lap, bursting with excitement, and proclaim,

_'Daddy, guess what…?'_

He could see it; see teaching his child to fish, to fly, to ride a horse. Could _feel_ a little son or daughter sitting upon his shoulders while he made up silly names for the constellations, and (back at their campsite) a laughing mom prepared supper.

No… she _had_ to understand how important that was; how necessary.

"Cindy, I've always wanted kids. Lots of them. I come from a big family, and…"

"I _don't_," she cut in, smiling a little.

Giving Scott's hand another brief tap, she leaned away again. Meanwhile, the head waiter glided up, but Scott sent him off. They weren't much interested in food, just then.

"Don't get me wrong," Cindy continued, draining the last of her Long Island iced tea, "I had a great childhood. Bart and Marcy were wonderful parents. They flew all the way to Eastern Europe to get me, for God's sake… but I'm not ready for 2 AM feedings, saggy breasts and diaper pails. I've seen what's happened to friends who caved in, Scott, and _believe me_, the results weren't pretty.

"I enjoy travel, spontaneous sex, adult conversation and my own identity too much to give them up for a couple of toothless, hair-snatching drool machines. _Ever_. If this is going to be a major issue, Hollywood, maybe we…"

"Hang on," Scott interrupted, before she could finish brushing him off. "You're getting all excited, Hon, and there's no reason to be. We can work this out, I mean it. People who love each other find a way around obstacles like children, careers and religion. Look…" he dragged forth a sudden example, "_John's_ wife has a job. She's a doctor, an astronaut, and she _still_ found time for marriage and a baby."

Cindy snorted, but smiled again.

"Knowing your brother, he snuck up and drugged her coffee. Or else babies are standard NASA-issue, these days."

She'd relaxed again; that was something. The smile had reached her dark eyes, and she'd let him recapture her hands.

"We'll figure something out," Scott insisted softly, massaging her palms. "One way or another, Hon, we'll find a way to make this work."

Cindy said nothing, but chose to let him believe. That much, at least, she owed him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_I-95, heading north to Wharton Private Academy-_

"This sucks," Alan growled, from the very back of the Tracy Aerospace transport van. Not that anyone was listening.

"It blows, it bites and it chews. I'm _serious_!"

But Brains was deep in conversation, half his mind on the road, half on the 'colleague' he was talking to via hands-free headset.

Fermat was hunched over his new Palm Treo, tapping out boring stuff to Sam Nakamura, his best school friend. Consequently (and, he might add, as usual) Alan was left to his own petulant self. No one wanted to hear his complaints. No one cared that he was about to be imprisoned.

Yeah. Wharton Private Academy for upper-crust snobs and Ivy little-leaguers

No girls, no surf, no rescues, no _nothing._ Just constant study, raised-pinky manners, high culture and dorm life. Fermat wasn't going to be much fun, either; Alan could tell. 50 miles from Nerdville and the skinny smart kid was already geeking out, despite everything Alan had taught him.

Great. Just, frickin' wonderful.

Alan slouched low in his leather seat and glared through the window at naked trees and hissing traffic. The sky outside was an indeterminate shade of grey; somewhere between 'blah' and 'sucks to be you'.

"Regular families stay together, you know," he announced aloud, unable to contain his frustration. "They don't pack their kids off to Butt-Pimple, New York for re-education!"

No one argued back. Dr. Hackenbacker gave him a swift, rear-view mirrored head shake, while Fermat didn't even look up.

Okay, then… cell phone time.

…Except that all he got from anyone was _'I'm off having more fun than you are, so leave a message, loser'._

TinTin was probably lounging out by the pool, looking all sexy and stuff… Gordon was on his way back to swim training in Europe… and John too busy shaking hands and posing for photographs to pick up the dang phone. Even his _mom_ was off line.

Fine. Be that way.

Maybe he _couldn't_ stop them from sending him away to school, or get any sympathy, either… but Alan Tracy could sure as heck do his level best to get expelled, and in record time, too.

See, private school wouldn't work any better than Ritalin had, because Operation Major Chaos was about to begin.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Madrid, Spain, Barajas Airport, Late afternoon-_

He was cleared for landing, after a very long, very tiring flight.

Gordon Tracy cut in low over the sun-warmed city, his heart lifting as the plane dropped. The ground beneath him tilted and rose, providing brief, shy glimpses of bright marble palaces and dark foliage; of cathedrals, plazas and ambling folk.

Tracy Aerospace had its own hangar and landing strip off to one side of Barajas Airport, which saved the tired young pilot a little time. Customs and baggage checks were a mere handshake formality, there (as much because he'd won gold for the European Union men's swim team as because his surname was 'Tracy'… and maybe, too, because his astronaut brother, John, was newly returned from Mars. Every little bit, don't you know…).

Gordon was never smooth when excited, and his landings weren't, either. Coming in steep and fast, the yellow turbo-prop made hard contact with the runway, bounced violently, wobbled a bit, and then touched down again. Her tires smoked and squealed, but this time stayed on the ground, humming along the tarmac toward taxiway bravo. Despite his shaky entrance, Gordon was quite a good pilot. Not in Scott's league, perhaps, or Virgil's, either, but he probably got twice as much fun from it all.

The tower chatter was a warm mix of Spanish and English, welcoming Gordon back to Madrid, and wishing him luck in the upcoming games; like the strong, slanting sunshine and jewel-blue sky, part and parcel of his second home.

He thanked the ground controller and joked around a bit, simultaneously taxing back to TA's business hangar and typing away at his flight log. Just about ran his aircraft into the side of a building when he saw who was waiting for him by the hangar doors, though.

Royce Fellows, he'd rather expected. Anika Peralta, he hadn't. She bounced up and down at the end of the taxiway; slender, green-eyed, tawny-haired and perfect. Royce slouched beside her, hands in the pockets of his blue-and-gold team jacket, grinning broadly. He was a big lad, bald, dark-skinned and sweet-natured. An excellent swimmer and Gordon's best mate.

Not troubling about his bags, Gordon shut the plane's engines down and all but kicked the door loose in order to reach Royce and Anika. The lass crossed the distance between them in two sprightly bounds, at once laughing, crying and calling his name. She was Catalonian, rather than Spanish, and her accent was a bit off, but this hardly mattered, for Gordon's was worse. Anyhow, she'd leapt directly into his arms, and her kisses required nothing in the way of translation or improvement, being warm and sweet as new-spun candy floss.

"Bloody hell… Find a room, can't you?" Royce laughed, sauntering up to the closely braided pair. Gordon released the lass long enough to give his best mate a quick, rough embrace.

"That's sheer envy talkin', so I'll ignore it," he laughed, once he and Royce had shoved each other about the tarmac a bit. "Come t' collect me, have you?"

(They hadn't warned him, you see.)

"Right. Thought we'd surprise you with a prettier face than McMahon's."

_Damn_. At the mention of their highly-irascible swim coach, Gordon immediately sobered.

"In a mood, was he?" The red-haired young man asked his taller friend.

"Bloody frothin'. It's a week past sign-in, and you're goin' t' die, mate."

Anika scowled up at Royce, her green eyes narrowing to sharp cat-slits. As an Olympic-level gymnast, she had coaches of her own… but hers were far less likely to scream and fling their ruddy clipboards.

"Royce, _cajate!_ You scare him back to the plane!"

Swinging lithely about, she gazed at Gordon, again, both hands twining themselves in his travel-stained Hawaiian shirt.

"Gordon, don't listen. Is fine. All very well with Senor McMahon. He will be very glad for seeing you, but I am _more_ glad."

Leaping upward, Anika wrapped legs and arms around him and resumed her storm of interrupted kisses. Indeed, it was good to be back.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, the office, early morning-_

"Zoo-_what?"_ Virgil Tracy inquired, laughing puzzledly. He sat leaning upon his folded arms, gazing into the comm screen which transmitted the face and words of Teena Redfeather, his girlfriend. (One of them, anyhow. Her twin was the other.) She was part Mexican, part Cheyenne, but mostly beautiful… and half a world away, squinting into the screen of a cell phone. He could glimpse mountains, past the whipping dark smoke of her hair.

_"Zulayl._ From now on, when I'm being professional, I'm going to call myself 'Zulayl Rojas'. It sounds smarter. Shari's picked 'Himilce Rojas'. Whatcha think, Virgil?"

Not much, actually. So long as they answered, Virgil didn't much care what the twins' new names were.

"Works for me," he decided aloud. "Teena's still okay in private, though. Right?"

"Sure," she smiled, dimpling on one side. _"Speaking_ of which… You know I got a temporary job now that school's out, right?"

(She and her sister both attended the local community college.)

Virgil nodded. She'd mentioned it, yeah.

"Okay, so I'm helping one of my professors with a dig site. It's down in Mexico, at an Aztec sacrificial well. There's all kinds of bones and pottery and weapons down there. Professor Roth started an expedition last year, see. Only he had to stop on account of funding problems, and because he had classes to teach. But, uh… someone made a big donation last month, and you could come visit me there, starting next week, if you want." Kind of rushed, this last, but heartfelt.

Sounded wonderful to Virgil, at any rate, whose bluntly handsome face was all at once eager as a hunting dog's.

"I'll have to clear it with dad, first. You sure your boss won't mind me hanging around?"

Teena-in-private grinned.

"Long as you bring your shovel and checkbook, I guarantee ol' Rothie'll be more than happy to see you, Virgil. Archaeologists are _always_ broke."

Virgil laughed. He wanted to reach through the screen and hug her to him, taste the sunshine and salt on her rosy skin.

"Okay, then. Pending dad's go-ahead, it's a date."

"Mexico City, one week from today," Teena/ Zulayl confirmed, brushing back her long hair. "You bring the sun screen. I'll pack the beer and live bait."

They could hardly wait.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Peary Crater, the International Moon Station; 3 AM local time, still in quarantine-_

After nearly a year of interplanetary space travel, 1/6th gravity hurt like hell. All of them were suffering to some degree, the baby most of all. She simply wasn't accustomed to up and down, nor her flaccid little heart used to working so hard at pumping blood.

Even in her sleep, Janie twitched and whimpered, perhaps recalling what it felt like to fly, perhaps merely worn and sore. Whichever, it was her father who stood watch over the restlessly dreaming girl, most nights. He never slept much, anyhow, so it made perfect sense that he should be the one to stroke away nightmare and answer groggy questions. Part of the job, as John Tracy understood it.

Junior (for so they usually called her) slept in a crib with a colorful mob of stuffed bears and NASA chimpanzee dolls, thumb tucked into her slack, pink mouth. Probably, he shouldn't have encouraged that, but it had seemed like the thing to do at the time. Kept her quiet, anyway.

Her crib was located in the bleak central 'living room', along with the crew's television screen, couch and dining table. Otherwise, the place was mostly concrete, steel, cameras and observation windows, with a little lab equipment thrown in for variety. By this time, he barely noticed it.

The others grunted, tossed and mumbled around him, each in a nearby curtained alcove (something like the sleep lockers on _Endurance_). His wife lay in the alcove directly behind. Her curtain was half open. She'd asked him to leave it that way when he'd risen from their bed, so that she could see him, and the baby.

Kim Cho and Roger Thorpe were close, as well; separated from each other by concrete, cloth and honor. Meanwhile, Pete McCord snored like a chain saw, sometimes waking himself in the process. Fell asleep again seconds later, though, muttering scraps of command.

Like his crew, the mission commander had a lot of recovering to do, for Mars had proven as harsh as she was lovely, and they'd come very close to dying there.

John walked around a little, pacing the confines of the quarantine chamber. Thunderbird 5 hadn't been much larger… but at least he'd been able to leave. Here? He had no idea what the hell was going on, or when they'd be allowed to go home.

28 days since making lunar orbit, they were still locked away "for their own good"; tested, questioned and examined, with no release date in sight. And lately, no direct contact with outsiders. Not good.

Hearing a sudden low sound, John pivoted. His wife had awakened. Wearing one of his black Princeton tee-shirts and wrapped in a bed sheet, she stumbled, blinking, from their alcove.

"Good morning, Doctor," he said, reaching out to brush a few strands of brown hair from her face.

"G' morning, Sunshine," she yawned back, leaning into him. "Early?"

"Very." 0420, to be exact.

"How's the baby?"

She sounded funny, with her face buried in his chest, that way. John glanced into the crib, seeing pink terry-cloth, blonde curls and a tiny, gently moving form.

"She's good," he replied, covering all the bases, status-wise. He then led his wife to the TV couch. They sat down together, Linda curling up at his side like a kitten. Before falling asleep, she slid her left hand and arm up the front of his shirt. In space, the habit had helped keep them from floating apart during sleep (that, and the harnesses). Unnecessary, here, but John supposed she'd gotten used to it.

_He_ had.

"Wake me up… if she cries, John… G'night."

The blurry request was broken by deep yawns and comfortable wiggling, and quickly trailed off into mumbled nonsense.

"Okay," John responded.

But when Junior began fussing a few minutes later, he disentangled himself without waking Dr. Bennett, and fetched the baby out of her crib, himself.

Junior didn't understand 'private' or 'out of reach' any better than she comprehended falling objects. So, because she needed to see them, he carried the child around, allowing her to peep into the others' sleeping places. This way, she was reassured that Uncle Pete, Auntie Cho and her Uncle Roger were safe, and still present.

Then, of course, she wanted to inspect the double air-locked lab doors, clinging to her father's neck as he walked from hatch to screen to instrument panel.

"All secure," he told her, eliciting a smile and a sleepy kiss. Then another, more worrisome thought came to her.

"Daddy, is the mens coming for to get blood?" She whispered and signed, anxious that they'd have to place their arms through the collection window again, and let a heavily-gloved technician draw samples.

"No. They're off sticking someone else," he told her, rubbing lightly at the girl's small back.

Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy hated giving blood samples because it stung, and because the collection cabinet's nitrogen atmosphere hissed and squeezed her, whenever she put a hand through. Also, that's where they'd implanted her new ID chip.

John was more concerned about the increasing biohazard safety protocols the WorldGov health crews were applying. That and the fact that he hadn't seen their original lab techs in several days. Very much, not good.

Back to the couch, then, after getting his child a snack of chemically stabilized strawberry milk (her favorite).

"Mommy sleeping," she announced, as they were getting settled. "She tired. Poor mommy. _Shhhh…"_

"Okay. I'm not the one running my mouth," John protested, amused.

"_Shhh, Daddy!_ You go sleep, now."

Her wide blue gaze was terribly serious, her chirping voice quite firm. Sometimes, Janie acted much less like a daughter than an impatient crewmate.

"That's what I had in mind, Junior. Now zip it, yourself, and go back to sleep."

The girl obediently positioned herself so that she was in contact with both parents, and soon drifted off. John found it harder to rest, though. Had he crouched in a cave, holding a fire-sharpened stick, he'd have faced the same painful question: how to defend his woman and child from that which prowled beyond the firelight.


	2. 2: Uncertainty Principle

Thanks for the kind reviews, ED, Cath, Sam1, Boleyn and Tikatu. Edits will commence directly.

**2: Uncertainty Principle**

_Madrid, the European Union Swim Complex-_

In the end, Gordon hit the pool as a simple matter of self-preservation. Underwater, he was harder to yell at, or to single out. Important considerations, for his coach, Kevin McMahon, was rabidly furious; seeming ready to gnaw his own arms off, or erupt like a stumpy, grizzled volcano.

Gordon's lateness wasn't the only reason. It seemed that Nathan Croft, the team's star breaststroker, had abruptly decided to quit; something to do with his flourishing movie career, possibly. At any rate, McMahon was down a swimmer, with the Pan American Invitational Meet not two months away.

Under the circumstances, the wise man jumped to, answered every command with "yes, _sir_," and swam five more laps than required. Like Royce, Damien, Erik, Kurt and Vittorio, Gordon chose to be very wise, indeed.

For the next ten days, almost without ceasing, he gulped pool water, inhaled chlorinated air, did rapid press-ups and swam until his body was a solid, fiery knot of pain. At night, he dreamt of swimming. Mealtimes, like the others, he talked himself through the hundred little adjustments that would increase his speed, refine his technique and boost his power… or else he fell asleep with his head on the table, while Royce pinched his dessert, again.

The butterfly was a difficult, intensely vigorous stroke, its mighty arm-scoops, hip thrusts and dolphin kicks demanding the flexibility and stamina of a leopard seal. But it soon became obvious that Gordon Tracy had lost a bit of his edge; rescues required strength and courage, not fancy technique. Not that his coach or teammates understood the reason for his once-again sloppy form. All they saw was lack of discipline.

Meaning to batter him into shape, McMahon drove Gordon relentlessly, alternately praising then cursing the young man, who possessed twice as much potential as most of the others… if only he'd damn well show up on time and stay focused.

Standing on the pool deck like a short, bandy-legged king, silver whistle clenched between smoke-stained teeth, his arms tightly folded, McMahon watched for flaws. He probed for weakness and hesitation, intent upon hammering his team into readiness.

It would have surprised them, maybe, to know how very proud he was of each and every swimmer in his stable. Even Gordon Tracy. For the most part, they were working too hard to speculate about McMahon's feelings (his probable canine ancestry was another matter, however).

One evening, after 25 very long laps, Gordon clung to the wall at the end of his lane, almost too tired to breathe. Silky water rippled and surged around him, beaten to high peaks by his slower teammates.

Royce glided up on the left. A micro-second later, Kurt Shultz did the same at his far right. They touched the wall, one-two, and hung there a moment, numb as shipwreck victims.

"Ee's got a meetin' tonight…" Royce gasped at last, when he'd summoned the wind to speak. "Might let us knock off early. If 'eaven smiles an' makes it so… you lads game f'r a curfew-break?"

Said Gordon, as the underwater pool lights flashed on, turning their submerged bits a rippling blue-green,

"I'm just tryin' t' gather strength enough t' move my arms an' climb out of the water, Royce. Curfew's a bit out of reach, at this point. Course, if someone hadn't stolen half my ruddy _food…"_

" 'S what you got f'r fallin' asleep in the dinin' hall, mate. Besides, last night, it wasn't me. 'Ad what you might call a pang o' conscious, I did. _Kurt_ was the one pinched the jelly n' custard, my word on it."

The culprit was already out of the pool, but not beyond earshot.

"You were not seeming to want it," the loose-limbed German responded sheepishly, offering Gordon a hand up by way of apology. Then, changing the subject, "What has become of the others?"

Royce joined the air-drying pair on the pool deck, so rubber legged with fatigue that he had to sit down on a starting block.

"Gone in, or drowned, I expect… an' since I can't see any floatin' bodies f'r all my hopeful searchin'… I'm thinkin' 'tis the former. Damien, Erik an' Vittorio're in there right now, usin' up _our _hot water. Time t' move, lads, while we've strength left t' toss their clothes in the lassies' room."

Easier planned than accomplished, and the entire reason that Gordon once again failed to return Alan's phone call.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Virgil had lined up a number of compelling arguments for going away to Mexico City. Everything from…

_'I haven't taken time off in over a year,'_

To…

_'Scott will be back tomorrow night, Gordon's on call and NASA can't keep John penned up forever.'_

They were good reasons, and he knew it. Question was, would dad agree? Thinking it over, Virgil was cautiously optimistic. After all, it wasn't that his father ever denied him leave time. Just that he never really asked for any. He'd have felt awkward doing so when there was so much vital work to do, so many people needing help.

But even the most dedicated rescuers sometimes need a little R &R, and Virgil Tracy was long overdue.

He caught up with his father in the solarium, going over wedding plans with Gennine at a dainty, wrought-iron table.

(And there was another whole can of worms, but… Well, at least this one he _liked._ Lady Penelope had never struck Virgil as a good match for his father. Not when Gennine had prior claim and fewer airs.)

Stepping through the open French doors, Virgil loped over and gave his soon-to-be-once-again stepmother a quick kiss.

"Excuse me for interrupting, but could I borrow dad a minute?"

Gennine was as blonde and blue-eyed as Alan, but several times easier to get along with. Smiling, she said,

"Of course, sweetie. You two go ahead and deal with business. I've got another chapter to write, anyhow, and a walk along the beach will help put me in the proper mood for pirates and noblewomen."

She was writing another romance novel, this one titled 'Lust and Gold'. Strangely enough, people actually paid to read the stuff, which always seemed to star a thinly disguised Jeff Tracy. Having found several manuscripts lying around, Virgil was quite familiar with her work.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said. "Have fun."

"Thank you, Virgil. I will."

She patted his shoulder, gave Jeff a soft kiss and then wandered out of the room, trailing floral perfume and blue chiffon.

Glancing at his stoic father, Virgil suppressed the urge to grin. There were guest lists, cloth samples and gilt invitations scattered all over the little table top, along with her latest story.

"Do I get credit for an off-the-record rescue?" he teased, taking a seat across from Jeff.

His father's response was indirect, but heartfelt.

"Three simultaneous weddings, 175 guests… 87 of whom have to be lodged in Tahiti… a five-star, seven-course banquet… and she wants us all to write our own vows. So far, the best I can come up with is: _Roses are red, violets are blue. If you'll take me back, then I'll marry you._ Tell me why I shouldn't just shoot myself?"

Virgil rang at once for strong drink, saying,

"Because then you couldn't approve my vacation request."

"Et tu, Brute?"

Jeff formed a mock gun with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, and then brought it to his own throbbing temple. Virgil leaned over to swat the hand aside, though.

"Think of all you've got to live for, dad: the corporation, payments on this insanely big wedding, your new granddaughter… my leave request…"

Kyrano bowed his way in through the hall doors with a silver tray of Cognac and Cuban cigars. Jeff thanked his manservant graciously, and then poured himself a brimming snifter of heirloom liquor. Kyrano vanished before he'd done with pouring; ever the silent, silver-haired shadow of the Tracy household. Neither Jeff nor Virgil really noticed, being too well occupied with cutting and lighting their fine cigars.

"Not that you don't deserve the time off, son…" Jeff ventured, after a number of deep, heady puffs had cleared his mind. "…but why now? We're scattered all over the globe and off it, as well. You have to admit, your timing could be better."

Virgil was ready for that one. With great earnestness, he began ticking off his reasons.

"It's not as bad as it looks, dad. Scott's due back tomorrow with Brains. Gordon's on call and John's gotta be running out of blood and patience. Seriously, what else can they test? He'll be home in no time, dad. Plus… if anything major happens, you can call me back in. All I plan to do is head over to Mexico City to help Teena with her temporary job. Won't take long, honest. One week, and I'm home."

Jeff Tracy gazed at his handsome, brown-haired son. Nobody deserved more and got less, it seemed to the young man's father. There wasn't a quieter, more dedicated workhorse in the family than Virgil.

"Go ahead," the elder Tracy sighed. "We'll make due while you take some sanity leave. Just pray for sunny weather, calm seas and good decisions."

"Yes, sir. Will do."

Virgil leaned forward, but instead of shaking his father's hand, he clasped the man's shoulder, just like he'd been talking with Scott, or John.

Surprised, Jeff smiled.

"It's settled, then… but if you come back to complicate my life with a fiancée, I'll change my name, leave everything I own to TinTin, and move to Vermont. Understood?"

Unfortunately, Virgil laughed aloud while swallowing a giant mouthful of cognac. Jeff dodged most of the resulting spray, but Gennine's invitations, notebook and color swatches were ruined. It was a very bad day for pirates and noblewomen.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Manhattan, NYC, just outside the Four Seasons Restaurant, a chilly day-_

They'd chatted a bit longer, but Scott Tracy found himself straining for things to say. It was no easy matter to carry on light conversation while tiptoeing through a minefield.

How could Cindy not like children?

Even John, the iciest person he knew, was at least noncommittal on the topic… and Hiram Hackenbacker, their walks-into-walls engineer; even _he_ had a son.

Scott didn't want to risk offending her by bringing these points up, just then. Instead, he walked his wife-to-be outside and kissed her lingeringly to the music of traffic and surging people. Then, he hailed her a cab, buying the driver's patience with an enormous advance fare.

"Call me from the hotel," he told Cindy through the open passenger window. "I'll pick up or get right back to you, if I'm flying."

She squeezed his hand, half smiling.

"Sure thing, Hollywood. And cheer up… John may prove to be incredibly fertile, and in a giving mood."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Scott demanded crossly.

"That you can baby-sit all you want, with my blessing. I have no problem with other people's kids. Shake them up, fill them with sugar and red food dye, and send 'em on home. That's my philosophy."

Despite himself, Scott smiled.

"And mine is to turn on the charm until you can't think straight. Six kids before you know it, bet me."

Cindy grimaced.

"Sure, and by "bundle o' joy" number six, I won't even have to push; the kid'll drop as soon as I stand up! Now, _there's_ an inducement to procreate."

He kissed her again, this time through the window.

"I've got a better one," Scott whispered, trailing his forefinger along the side of her face.

Cindy caught at his hand and kissed it lightly. Then she was off; her grimy yellow cab joining the growling, honking torrent that filled Park Avenue. Scott watched her taxi until it faded from sight. He ought to have hailed another for himself, but felt the need of a long walk and some think time.

Was she softening?

He had a few hours to kill before Brains returned from delivering the boys. Time enough for a long-distance consult, under surprisingly private conditions. You could be very isolated in a crowd like this; surrounded by 10,000 people, each with gripping concerns of their own.

Scott first tried his cell phone, but NASA redirected his call to the WorldGov Public Health Department. There, he played telephone tag with a shifting stable of bland liars, not one of whom would put him through to John. About fifteen minutes into this frustrating morass, he'd had enough, shouting what he thought of their quarantine regulations loudly enough to draw several curious stares. Not from the WorldGov lackeys, however. _They_ simply hung up on him.

_Fine,_ Scott fumed silently. _Let's see them jam a wrist comm._

Locating a flight of steps which led downward to a basement-level law office, Scott adjusted the comm's bezel for John Tracy and then pressed its glass face.

It took awhile for his brother to respond. Just as Scott was beginning to think that WorldGov _had_ blocked the transmission, the comm screen lit up. Relieved, the fighter pilot smiled. There was a scrawny cat weaving its way between his ankles, and the dim stairwell reeked of urine, but he'd gotten through to John.

_"Hey, Scott."_ His brother seemed to be standing in some kind of closet. _"How's it going?"_

"Pretty good. You?"

_"Not bad, I guess. A little bored, maybe."_ He was about to add more, but Scott cut him off with,

"Listen, John, I have a question to ask. Did you… talk things over with Linda before you had the kid, or did it just happen?"

His younger brother was silent for a bit. Signal delay, partly, but also genuine astonishment.

_"Scott, you called me up on a secure line to ask about Dr. Bennett and the baby?"_

"Well… yeah. It's important. I need advice."

John's transmitted image shook its blond head.

_"Whatever. It's your nickel. Truth is, I sort of backed into all of this; marriage, Junior, all of it. I don't mind, though. Or… wait, that didn't come out right. Let's say that both events were a surprise, but I'm glad they happened."_

"Hmm… what about Linda? Did she want kids?"

The cat had made enough of a nuisance of itself that Scott finally picked the animal up, despite the risk of white cat hair on his five-thousand dollar suit.

"Reason I ask is because Cindy tells me she doesn't intend to have children. _Ever."_

From 240,000 miles away his astronaut brother sighed.

_"Scott, I'm the wrong one to talk to about all this. Ask again when my family and crewmates have made landfall."_

"Yeah… any idea when that'll be? Gennine's kind of set on a triple wedding, starring you, me and dad."

All at once, John's entire aspect changed. Before, he'd been bleak and incredulous. Now, he seemed bleak and _concerned._

_"I can't say. No one's telling us anything, Scott. Houston seems to have been muscled out of the loop by WorldGov. We can't get through to Riley, even, and he's the damn Moon Station commander. Listen, though; you haven't heard anything on the news about sudden health alerts, have you? We're pretty tightly censored, up here."_

Scott began to feel the first cold stirrings of worry.

"No… nothing beyond the usual flu threats from the mega-cities. Should I be watching for anything special? And do you guys need pick up? I can have 3 fueled up and ready to go by morning, little brother. Say the word, and we're there."

John's image glanced over its left shoulder, as though detecting a noise.

_"Got to go, Scott. Not sure what to tell you to look for. Just stay alert and keep the engine running. If we need you, I'll signal, but otherwise, it's best that you stay where you are."_

Scott lost signal a few moments later, leaving him standing in fetid semi-gloom with a scrawny white cat and a great many questions.


	3. 3: Tag

Thanks for your reviews, Tikatu and Sam1. I'll respond directly, and edits are coming.

**3: Tag**

_NYC, a dim stairwell somewhere in lower Manhattan-_

There are moments of crystalline purity in life; slow-motion interludes during which you realize just how badly, how _irretrievably,_ you've screwed up. For Scott Tracy, that moment arose when he felt the blunt, hard muzzle of a pistol against his back, and everything, all at once, came down to right _now._

"Gimme the watch, Mister. _Now!_ Your wallet, too… and that ring. Gimme the ring!"

Lesson One: Avoid dark, lonely places.

Lesson Two: Never argue with an automatic weapon.

Scott felt terribly cold, and very focused. Every muscle he possessed was primed and tingling, and he was hyper-aware of each sound, scent and moving shadow. When he pulled away slightly and started to turn around, the voice rose several octaves, its owner (young and male, he thought) clearly panicking.

_"No!_ Don't turn around! Just drop the damn goods, man, or I'll blow your head off, swear to God, I will!"

Scott had amassed enough battle and rescue experience to know that terrified people… especially young ones… can do stupid, violent things.

"Okay," he said, as calmly as possible, "I'm taking off the watch to one side, so you can see me do it. I'll have to reach inside my jacket for the wallet. It's down in one of my pockets. Is that alright?"'

He'd stripped the wrist comm from his left arm very carefully, using slow, easily tracked movements. The panting, hoarse-voiced kid behind him jabbed the gun a little harder into the small of Scott's back, trying to hurry him. Scott dropped the 'watch', hearing it hit the damp concrete below with a sharp, brittle _chik._

Putting out a sneakered foot, the kid nudged Scott's wrist comm to one side, then hooked it awkwardly back toward himself.

"Now get the wallet. Real slow, Mister! Don't do nuthin' stupid!"

Sounds from a nearby office suite indicated that someone was moving along the entry hall, evidently about to emerge. This was bad, because if the gunman felt threatened, he might simply shoot his victim, seize the goods and run off.

Scott reached into his jacket, located the inner pocket that his tailor had sewn into its silken lining, and then carefully drew forth his wallet (which held paper cash for such things as street vendors and taxi-cabs).

As the approaching footsteps rang louder, Scott dropped the wallet and his Air Force Academy ring onto the ground. All this time, the cat had stayed quietly in the crook of his left arm, its mangy white hair puffed out and its odd eyes wide. Now it peered over Scott's shoulder and hissed, provoking a snarled curse from the young gunman.

Something rattled sharply, sounding like multiple locks snapping open. The gun's muzzle jabbed at his back again, hard and inescapable as fate.

"Start walkin'! Go! If you look back, I'll shoot you, man. I'll do it! Won't be nuthin', man… shoot you like a dog, man!"

Virgil or Gordon would have tackled the guy physically. John would probably have tricked him into handing over the gun… along with everything he'd ever stolen. Scott did none of the above. He simply, cautiously, began walking forward, heading slowly up a ringing metal staircase toward street level, while rapid, running footsteps headed away behind him.

The muscles of his back were clenched painfully tight; his mind locked onto the first few lines of the "Our Father". Scott walked on, braced unconsciously for the roar of a gun, for the burning, tearing impact of a hollow-point bullet… but it thankfully never came.

Instead, as though he'd stepped from the mouth of hell and back to Earth, Scott stood momentarily blinking at grey, wintry daylight, feeling the damp wind and a tentative purring from 'his' cat. Just then, he was very much amazed to be alive. Couldn't just stand there, though. Not with a criminal loose and his wrist comm in bad company.

Scott's hands shook only slightly as he transferred the cat to one shoulder and reached for his cell phone.

"Brains," he said, as soon as the call went through, "we've got a stolen wrist comm to track. It appears that somebody needs a time-out."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The International Moon Station's quarantine habitat, day 29-_

They'd maintained the full discipline of a mission flight day, divvying up what chores they had according to schedule. By the checklist, it was once again Linda's turn to set the table. She wasn't complaining, however; John had got stuck with cleaning the head, a far less enviable task.

On the surface, things were about as normal as six trapped people could fake, but secret tension enfolded them all as palpably as a sparking, shifting electrical field. Their cramped concrete prison fairly pulsed with it.

Cho, collecting laundry, several times dropped what she was carrying, mostly when she'd accidentally wandered into camera range. Even Roger seemed grim, highly unusual for the big Samoan Marine. Linda's movements were jerky and forced, her compensating chatter too high in pitch.

Janie sat wide-eyed in the midst of all this, on a fleecy pink blanket her mother had spread for her by their closed-circuit TV. Puzzled, the child clutched at one of her many Abe the Chimp dolls, thumb hovering irresolutely by her trembling mouth. _'Shhhh…!'_ Mommy had said. _'No sign, no talk.'_

It came down to this: Early that morning, Pete McCord had lumbered, scratching and yawning, from his sleeping berth, thinning sandy hair in utter disarray. Rising to his full five-foot-six tip-toe, he'd stretched luxuriantly, commencing a vast yawn that ended in,

_"Ooohhhh, shit! '_Scuse me, ladies_." _And then, because he was supposed to be politically correct and there were cameras looking on, McCord added,"…_And_ gentlemen."

No one reacted to what he'd said, though, because in the act of recovering from the stretch, at the precise point where his crew could see his hands clearly, but the cameras could not, he'd signed:

_'Meeting. At table, breakfast.'_

Pete had to keep his signs corralled in a tiny area just in front of one shoulder, which affected their meaning somewhat; the equivalent of an English speaker with a pronounced lisp… but the intent came through, regardless.

The mission commander wanted to talk. _Privately_.

As if waiting for a secret conference wasn't enough to keep him on edge, John was just about through scrubbing out the stainless-steel sink when his wrist comm began vibrating again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_NYC, downtown Manhattan, in gridlocked city traffic-_

The rear of the taxicab featured a small, blurry TV screen. For company, and to escape the razor-edged swirl of her own thoughts, Cindy turned it on.

She was worried and very angry; might have cried, even, if she hadn't spent so long applying her makeup, that morning. Cindy Taylor _never_ looked good, or dainty, when she cried. Just swollen, red and messy.

He wanted kids. Not just one or two, either; a whole tribe of them. Eight or nine runny-nosed, gummy-fingered, screeching, soul-draining _trolls._ And Cindy…

…Very, very badly needed someone to talk to. She wouldn't give in immediately, however. First, she re-examined the cab's interior, memorizing faded green vinyl, a grubby floor mat, that initials-carved TV screen and the back of her driver's head.

She tried watching television, but couldn't concentrate on game shows, adverts or panel discussions, nor on the religious tracts someone had stuffed into the cab's torn door pouch. At a loss for distraction, Cindy briefly considered calling up a local contact, but in her current state of mind she'd probably just irritate him. As Baxter was too highly placed at the Governor's mansion to risk alienating, the reporter chose a decidedly less palatable option: Scott's brother, John.

A quick shuffle through her Louis Vuitton handbag produced a sleek red cell phone. The number (a secure IR wrist comm code) had been given to her several years earlier by John, himself. She input it after cranking up the cab's privacy glass.

His response wasn't exactly flattering, though…

_"What the hell? Does __everyone__ have this number? ... And why won't the damn thing __initiate__ transmission, as well as receive?"_

Her cab lurched forward a whole six inches, nosing its way onto the George Washington Bridge, but Cindy hardly noticed.

"Not a clue, Pooky… and nice to see you, too. Is that a scrub brush you're holding?"

She expected a sharp retort (would have welcomed it, actually) but John merely lowered the grimy brush and leaned a bit closer to his comm screen.

_"Keep your voice down, Taylor,"_ he said, _"this unit is unauthorized, and I may be needing it, soon. How…"_ (Deep sigh) _"…can I help you?"_

Immediately, Cindy abandoned all pretence at coolness. To her own horror, the normally hard-edged reporter actually began to tear up.

"He wants enough children to field a baseball team!"

John was unimpressed, and extremely impatient.

"_For God's sake, not_ _this__ again,"_ he growled. _"Have I got 'oracle' stamped on my forehead? Or, 'ask me, I care'?"_

The tears dried up like Freon, as Cindy shot bolt upright in her seat.

"John, you're a class-A jackass, you know that?"

Oddly enough, he smiled at her, then; blond-haired, blue-eyed, physically perfect and a total jerk.

_"I do my humble best. So… Scott wants to become a Biblical patriarch, while you… what? Hate kids? Are secretly a man? Had your tubes tied? Sold your first born to pay off a gambling debt?"_

It was only with genuine, tooth-grinding effort that Cindy stopped herself from lowering the cab's passenger window and hurling her phone to the pavement, or simply hanging up.

"Have I mentioned just how _big_ a jackass you are, John?"

_"Six-four, but I'm pretty thin… and you haven't answered the question. What's your main objection to spawning new Tracys?"_

His tone, acerbic and disinterested, was somehow tonic. Stiffly, but with renewed strength, she said,

"It's not something I can do. I didn't have parents until I was almost three years old, John. I don't know how to take care of anything… I don't _want_ to take care of anything! Crying babies make me… make me scared enough to throw up. You don't know what I… nobody answered me except at feeding times, for three whole years, John. Crying was all I heard, and all I did. I just… I _can't_."

_"Okay. Understandable enough. Talk it over with Scott, and consider adopting an older child. That'll be $2,500, please."_

"What…?" she half-laughed, half-choked, at once incredulous and relieved. "You gouging son of a…"

_"If I'm forced to act like a psychiatrist, I damn well intend to get paid like one."_ But he was smiling, a little.

"And what do you think NASA will have to say about this part-time moonlighting, Dr. Frigid?"

_"Are you kidding? They'll love it. Means they don't have to give me a raise, which they couldn't afford, anyway."_

Hard man to figure out, John Tracy; especially when the half-smile faded from his face and eyes, and he said,

_"Listen… I'll waive the fee if you can find out why the hell we're still in quarantine, Taylor. See if there are any rumors floating around the Public Health Department, would you? But I want to stress, in case anyone's said different, that we're perfectly healthy, even Pete and the baby. __No one here is sick.__ I wouldn't lie to you about that."_

Cindy nodded, shifting the phone from her one hand to the other. The call-waiting signal went off in her ear, a few times, but she didn't pick up. Not with a story like this one being dropped in her lap.

"I believe you, John. And if I have to dig all the way to Antarctica to find them, I'll get you some answers. So… you're incommunicado, I take it?"

_"It appears that way... but, uh… we may be working something out. In the meantime, please talk to dad and Commander Riley about the situation… __quietly.__ They need to be updated. Scott already knows."_

She promised to do as he asked, tingling all over with eagerness to break the story. John signed off a bit later, having already spent a suspiciously long time cleaning the bathroom. The call had done its job, though; her almost brother-in-law had left the reporter with a mission, and something akin to hope.

it didn't last. Cindy's good mood changed the instant she glanced at her TV screen. Senator Stennis, esteemed pin-head from Texas, was on yet another venomous Capitol Hill anti-tech, anti-space program rant. _Moron. Worse yet, moron with air-time._

Once again angry, she picked up the cell phone, this time dialing WNN's San Francisco affiliate.

"Yeah, hi… it's Cindy. Let me talk to His Imperial Iron-fisted-ness. Sure, I'll wait… _Jake! _Boss of the decade, my _idol_! How's every little thing? Yeah, yeah… same to you."

Settling comfortably against the taxicab's worn cushions, oblivious now to traffic and heartache, Cindy went on,

"Got a deal for you, Jake. Get shit-for-brains off the air for me, and I'll tell you all about my exclusive interview with John Tracy. Yes, _that_ John Tracy… Never mind. I have my methods. Uh-huh… you can have Andre type it up on the live feed crawl: _Ares astronauts safe and well on the Moon, eager to head home."_


	4. 4: Wharton

**4: Wharton**

_Late Monday afternoon, beneath grey, chilly skies-_

The van ride north was long, Alan's temper short and extremely frayed. By the time Wharton's stone bell tower appeared above the densely wooded hills, young Master Tracy was ready to leap from a moving vehicle and sprint like mad for his life and sanity.

Clearly, the school was old. Big, too; with many acres of rolling, private parkland, spurting waterfalls and small, twisty caves. Not that any of this interested Alan. As far as he was concerned, it took _forever_ to reach the rotten place.

Then, after four straight hours of driving, Brains at last turned off the main road and onto a winding, tree-shadowed lane near Hudson Valley. Though he was to become much more familiar with Wharton in days to come, Alan's _first_ glimpse of the school was its gaunt tower and those creaking, barren trees.

The campus was surrounded by a forest of giants; an ancient, mixed wood of oak, ash and thorn, quiescent now with the onset of winter. The great trees were widely spaced, their bases smothered in a hushing-deep carpet of fallen leaves.

Glowering through the van windows, Alan imagined a giant tidal wave sweeping it all away, leaving nothing behind but thundering ocean and an endless horizon of steep, churning barrels. (Which, of course, he saw himself surfing.)

No such luck. The un-flooded avenue went on, eventually splitting into a circular driveway, something like the one at Foxleyheath, Lady Penelope's humble abode. Slowing to a crawl, Brains made a turn signal (even though there was, like, _zero_ traffic) and edged his borrowed van onto the graceful roundabout.

"G- Get, ah… get your s- stuff together, b- boys. We're here."

Well… _durrr!_

Alan would rather have had his head shaved and his toenails painted green, but Fermat was excited enough for both of them; brown hair mussed and blue eyes sparkling behind his thick glasses. Pointing at a carefully trimmed hedge, he said,

"L- Look, Alan! See the… b- big 'W'…? It _doesn't_ stand for… 'Wharton', like everyone f- first thinks. It stands for _Warriors_, our m- mascot. Th- the school… colors are b- black and red. Y- You'll be getting a... scarf and school t- tie, and m- maybe we'll have... classes t- together."

Alan stuck his right forefinger in the air and whirled it around a few times. _Big whup,_ he thought savagely._ So what?_

The driveway curved to the right, passing through a high stone wall pierced by two wrought-iron gates. Entry and exit, Alan supposed. He was determined not to be impressed, though, and took as much time as possible in gathering his book-bag and Playstation Nano.

Beyond the wall, the avenue completed its broad arc, creating an acres-wide semi-circle of withered lawn. There was a lone, bare tree in its midst, which Fermat called the Century Oak. Alan shrugged. Dead tree, cawing birds. _Who gave a flip?_

Near the tower, he glimpsed a collection of tall, slate-roofed buildings, their stone walls thickly twined with ropes of dead ivy. Dead, _climbable,_ ivy. Hmmm… possible escape route? Worth trying, Alan decided, feeling a little more hopeful.

At the drive's far end, a flagstone path led directly to the front steps of the nearest building, an imposing granite hall. Two people awaited them there. One was a rather portly, silver-haired man, the other a smiling woman. Hackenbacker signed off of his phone conversation with a wave in their direction, saying,

"I s- see you, now, Myrna; be with you in, ah... in j- just a moment."

Fermat lunged from his seat at precisely the same time, shouting,

_"Mom!"_

Brains glanced at him through the rear-view mirror. At once exasperated and amused, he said,

"W- Wait until, ah… until w- we've come to a c- complete stop before t- trying to, ah… to batter your way f- free, son."

Fermat obeyed orders, but only just. His father had no sooner ground to a halt and released the van's electronic locks, than the excited boy shot from the nearest available door. Maybe he didn't look very cool galloping up the path to his spread-armed mother… but he sure did look happy. Unlike Alan, who'd kind of slouched from the van to stand, nervous and shivering in cold, damp air; hating the place, already.

Stuffing both hands in the pockets of his hooded jacket, Alan watched disgustedly as the old guy bustled up to greet Brains.

"Dr. Hackenbacker," the man said, in a rich, rolling baritone. "_Always_ a distinct pleasure to welcome you back."

Brains smiled, shaking the older man's hand with evident delight.

"It feels g- good to return to, ah… to my Alma Mater, H- Headmaster. Being here certainly b- brings back old, ah… old t- times."

Besides being a board member, 'Hiram Hackenbacker' (once Dwight Bremmerman) was a proud Wharton alumnus. The school had been his refuge, taking in the orphaned boy on the strength of test scores and a New York State merit scholarship. He'd never forgotten.

Still smiling, the engineer indicated Alan with a sweep of one hand.

"And this, sir, is, ah… is Alan T- Tracy, the son of my employer, _Jeff_ Tracy. Th- Thank you, Headmaster Case, for waiving your, ah… your entrance requirements to allow h- him a seat so l- late in the term."

"Don't mention it, Dr. Hackenbacker. The issue was never in question; not for any student recommended by _you_. I have complete confidence that Alan will excel here, as so many have done before him."

The old man waited, apparently expecting Alan to say something; but, as he hadn't chosen to come here, didn't want to _stay_, and would have left a dang vapor trail if given the chance to escape, Alan remained silent, an expression of open rebellion on his soft, round face.

Brains actually had to say,

"Alan, c- come here, please. I would, ah… would like t- to introduce you,"

…before the scowling 15 year-old would budge. Even so, his slow, dragging pace made it perfectly obvious that Alan would rather have been stuffed in a milk crate and air-mailed to Pakistan than show any discipline or enthusiasm.

"S'up?" he grunted, slapping the headmaster's proffered hand.

The silver-haired gentleman responded with dignity.

"I am quite well, thank you, if that is what you are attempting to inquire, young man."

Sensing disaster, Brains intervened before Alan could open his big mouth and insert a size-twelve foot in it.

"A- Alan, I would like you to m- meet Dr. Edward Case, Wharton's h- headmaster, and a v- very old and, ah… and d- dear friend of mine. He w- will be overseeing your, ah… your education."

Good try, but Alan's only response, as he and the old man locked gazes, was,

"You think so, huh?"

Not the best of beginnings.

Meanwhile, a few yards away, Fermat's mother had just about finished planting kisses on his face and whispering _'I love you'._

_"Mom!"_

He had to pretend embarrassment, of course, because people were watching... but that didn't mean that he wasn't enjoying all the attention.

No one would have called his mother pretty. She wasn't tall, for one thing, had medium-length hair of a nondescript brown, and _never_ wore makeup. Also, whatever figure Myrna Bremmerman might have possessed was generally hidden by her over-sized, unfashionable clothing. And none of this counted a bit against the fact that she loved him intensely, was as intelligent as his adored father, and headed the particle physics department at Empire State University. Needless to say, Fermat didn't just love her, he was very deeply proud.

"Okay," she laughed, releasing her beaming son. "I'll stop humiliating you with public displays of affection. _But…_ I have a terrific surprise for you, Sweet pea."

"What?" Fermat demanded, fighting the urge to bounce around like a preschooler. "Mom, w- what is… is it?"

She laughed again and hugged him closer before reluctantly letting go.

"Well... now that you've returned from your 'adventure', I've decided to take a sabbatical from ESU to offer advanced-placement physics here at Wharton."

Fermat's blue eyes grew very wide.

"Y- You're going to… s- _stay_?"

"All next semester," she admitted, smiling fondly. "And, with any luck, we can find a way to convince your father, 'Hiram the Hermit', to linger awhile."

"Wow…" he breathed. "M- Mom, that's awesome. I l- l- l- lo-…"

Fermat couldn't finish the sentence, but Myrna Loy Bremmerman understood him perfectly. Once more, she pounced upon and fiercely embraced her young son.

"Yes. I know, dear," she told him. "And I love you, too."

At the other end of the walkway, something happened which finally allowed Brains to rejoin his wife and child.

A simply enormous dog (tall, grey and shaggy) came loping toward them over the frost-killed lawn. Barking excitedly, it bounded up to lick the headmaster's hands, then lunged away from him to sniff Brains and Alan; a whirlwind of jangling tags, bad breath and rattling claws.

Alan gasped, impressed despite his earlier vow. Although his mother claimed that they sapped her vital energies, Alan _liked_ animals. Curious, the dog regarded him with its long head tipped to one side, pink tongue lolling out between narrow jaws. Then, very softly, it yipped a tail-wagging invitation to play. Kind of like Scout, back on the island.

Alan smiled back. Dropping to a crouch, he buried his face in grey fur and hugged the big animal, hard.

"This is Boye," Dr. Case informed him. "An Irish Wolfhound of championship descent. Officially, he belongs to me, but in practice comes and goes as he will, seeming to prefer the forest, stables and dining hall to my office. It would appear, Master Tracy, that he finds something within you to admire."

Alan said nothing, but continued petting the magnificent dog, getting his left ear messily licked in return. He didn't mind. The best thing about dogs was, no matter what was going on inside you, they always seemed to understand. Even if you _were_ a total screw-up, they loved you anyhow, and who could say no to an offer like that?

Alan was still communing with Boye when Hackenbacker's cell phone went off. Scott, it seemed, had been robbed.

'Seemed', because Brains had to speak in code about whatever had been taken. Something vital to the family business, apparently.

"I'll h- have t- t- to go," he told the boys, sudden nervousness exacerbating his stutter. "But y- you'll be, ah… be p- perfectly safe h- h- here with Headmaster Case. B- Be good, Fermat… Alan."

Hackenbacker hugged his son, shook Alan's hand, gave his disappointed wife a swift, regretfull kiss, and in very short order was gone. International Rescue left their engineer with little time for a private life.

"Well, then: _onward_," Case announced, as the Tracy Aerospace van rumbled off through the east gate. "It is time now for a tour of your new home, Alan."

A simple statement, and perfectly reasonable... so why did it sound like a threat?


	5. 5: Comm Check

Thanks for reviewing, ED. Alan's true nature is forthwith revealed... First edits.

**5: Comm Check**

_Peary Crater, at the International Moon Station Quarantine Facility-_

The least intelligent things one could say to John Tracy, ever, were:

_"You can't,"_

Or…

_"It's not possible."_

The astronaut's internal response to either statement would be:

_"Yeah? Watch me."_

His external product would be a clever algorithm or newly hacked system; your cherished 'secure' code, in neatly dissected shreds.

Through cautious experimentation with his wrist comm, John discovered two areas where the quarantine habitat's physical dimensions exceeded WorldGov's comm block: the east-wall sleeping berths and the head (toward the back, by their neatly scrubbed aluminum sink). From either location it was just barely possible to transmit and receive; might even be feasible to set up his laptop and go to work.

Being John, he considered his imprisonment a challenge and his unfortunate captors, so much targetable dross.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Virgil had contacted Teena Redfeather with the good vacation news, speaking to her _this_ time from the comm unit in his own paint-and-supplies-strewn sitting room.

"Dad's given us his blessing," the brown-haired Tracy joked, smiling at his startled girlfriend.

"Then… he _knows?"_ Teena inquired, her dark eyes growing very wide. She was indoors now; at the student center, probably.

"Knows what?"

"That it's just you and me, now! Grandma I'd of figured. She knows _everything._ But… Jeff?"

_Huh?_

"Wait, wait, wait... Back up a minute, Teena. What d'you mean, 'just you and me'? What's happened to Shari?"

The girl's smile grew slightly wicked, as though she enjoyed leaving Virgil in a bit of confusion.

"Well…" she said, twisting a strand of black hair around one finger, "...the other night we got sick of this whole uncertain relationship thing, and decided to arm wrestle each other for, um… 'Boyfriend property rights'. I won, so then Shari wanted to go best 2 out of 3, and lost again. Then we went best 7 out of 10, and I _still_ dropped her. We were out at the Tin Star, see, and I ordered a few rounds of beer, except I didn't actually drink mine. She _did_. Demon alcohol... gets you every time."

Teena smiled proudly, shaking back long hair like a river of smoke. With her slightly-open denim shirt and beaded necklace, she looked like God's gift to Wyoming… or to Virgil Tracy. Just now, though, the young man in question was too stunned to fully appreciate her newly available beauty.

"You… _wrestled..._ for me? And won?"

"Yup. 15 times. It's a done deal, cowboy… though I still don't know how your dad figured things out."

"He didn't," Virgil replied. "I was joking about the blessing."

Wouldn't be the first time a western woman had delivered _herself_ to the man of her choice, and it certainly did simplify matters, but…

"How's Shari taking this? She okay?"

Sheer vanity made Virgil hope that his erstwhile spare girlfriend was at least _sorry._ Teena flipped a hand back and forth in a little… _'Eh. So-so'_ …gesture.

"She's a survivor. Already got her sights trained on Sam Kemminger, as a matter of fact."

Virgil shot arrow-straight in his chair, at that.

_"Kemminger?_ But, he's an ass! _John_ cleaned his clock, back in the seventh grade! How could Shari follow _me_ with… with _Sam Kemminger?"_  
Not possible. Surely, some kind of nightmare. Sam Kemminger was a boil in the armpit of Burlington, Wyoming. _Everybody _knew that.

Teena, however, was actually laughing.

"Don't worry about Shari. She's bought spurs and a bullwhip, and plans to reform him. Hey, look on the bright side, Virgil… at least now you won't have to flip a coin, and I promise to make up for lost time just as soon as you reach the dig site."

The offer of a lifetime, and he couldn't even work up a decent leer. Suddenly empathizing with his father… and Scott… and John (all of whom had female issues of their own) Virgil Tracy promised to hurry matters, then signed off and rang for another very stiff drink.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men, upstate New York-_

Alan's initial impression had been correct; the school was deceptively large and (to his eyes, anyhow) _weird_. He was accustomed to rundown public education facilities jammed with apathetic students and exhausted, retired-on-active-duty teachers. Wharton was very different, and not just because the sons of the world's power elite attended classes here. For one thing, it seemed that they actually expected him to, y'know, _learn._

There were eight large buildings clustered around the school's central quad. Langley Center was the administration building, a place (Alan quickly discovered) you did _not_ want to go. The headmaster's office was there, together with that slithering viper's nest, the faculty lounge; two very good reasons to steer clear.

Located at the north side of the quad, 3-storey Langley was the first building most visitors saw. To its west was Hamilton Center, where art and Latin were taught. A gallery on the first floor showcased the paintings and sculptures of Wharton students dating back to the mid-1700s. Interesting stuff, if you liked that kind of thing.

To Langley's other side lay the campus library, Morgan House. Dark, hushed and musty, packed with ancient tomes and wooden study carrels, it was said to be quite haunted.

The quad's entire east side was taken up by Stanton Hall: the dining, family visitation and recreation building. It had a certain relaxed, lived-in feel; doors flung wide and big stone chimneys producing endless smoke and fine smells.

Across the quad from Stanton lay Cabot Hall, home to classrooms, auditoriums and the school chapel. Blake Hall, at the southernmost end, contained further classrooms and Wharton's well-equipped science labs. To the left and right of Blake were the dorms: Astor and Carnegie Hall.

Being fifteen (and therefore an upper-classman) Alan would reside in Carnegie Hall. Fermat lived in Astor. There were faculty dorms, as well, along with a cavernous gym, a pool, stadium, laundry building, computer lab, machine room, stables and clinic, but the get-acquainted tour didn't include these, or else Alan wasn't paying much attention.

He trudged along in the headmaster's wake, one hand on Boye, the other in his pocket, all the while chewing reflexively on a massive lump of gum. Meanwhile, Fermat and his mom walked to one side, utterly absorbed in each other.

No problem. Alan had long since tuned them _and_ Case out, pulling his hood up so that he could stick a pair of earbuds back in and turn on his iPod. After all, pretty much anything was tolerable with Louder's "_Uttor Krud"_ blasting in the background.

Somewhat anesthetized, he followed the group past a row of greenish-bronze statues, dodging silvery puddles of standing water and cackling flocks of birds. That is, until the bell rang. Wharton's high tower housed a clear-voiced, deeply resonant bell which nearly shook Alan's fillings loose, startling the boy alert, again. Its echoes bounced and rang from each stone wall and metal statue, seeming to linger for a head-splitting eternity.

At any of his old schools, the ringing of a bell would have sent hordes of chattering, rough-housing students pouring from their classes to fight, boast, flirt and hook up. Here, the well-behaved inmates left their rooms in orderly sets, talking quietly, if at all.

"Have you any questions, young man?" the headmaster inquired (like he'd been paying attention or something).

"Yeah." Alan deliberately blew and popped an enormous bubble. "If this school's so great, how come you don't allow chicks? I mean, like… half the population isn't good enough for Wharton? How dumb is _that_?"

Case shook his head regretfully.

"There are many fine girls' academies that likewise exclude _males_, Master Tracy… but the unfortunate fact remains that the female of the species, however charming her nature, creates tremendous distraction among her male counterparts."

Yeah, right; and maybe he'd call his favorite future reporter-in-law to come snoop around for awhile, do a story or something. Cindy would have a field day with this place, Alan was certain.

As the flocks and herds of well-ordered students made their way to dinner, three figures detached themselves to approach the headmaster's little group. Two were friends of Fermat: Sam Nakamura and Daniel Solomon. One was their history teacher, Anne Wilde.

Fermat at once began joyously introducing his friends and relations, but Alan noticed almost nothing he said. Sam and Daniel were completely eclipsed by the brand-new, misty-pale, love of his life, Ms. Big-grey-eyes-and-slender-figure Wilde.

She actually had to tug her hand free, blushing slightly, when Alan didn't immediately release his warm handshake.

"It's very nice to… (_urf_) …make your acquaintance, Alan. I hope that you will come to find history as interesting and enjoyable as I do."

Even her voice was sweet…

"Oh, yeah," the blond teenager responded, drawing instant eye-rolls and dark looks from Fermat's young friends. "I'm, like, Mr. Ancient Past, for real. I mean, mummies and knights and dinosaurs really do it for me, y'know?"

Ms. Wilde bit her lip to stifle an impolite grin.

"Of course. Knights-errant tilting with stegosaurs have a precisely similar effect on me."

Alan swaggered just a bit in response, saying,

"Heck, yeah! That's my favorite part of American history. Got straight A's in it, all last year."

Daniel Solomon (sort of pudgy, blondish-brown hair) all at once stood a little taller. Even _he_ knew better than _that._ Black-haired Sam merely sighed, giving Fermat an incredulous, _'you have __got__ to be kidding me,'_ look. Fermat shrugged helplessly, leaning against his very puzzled mom (being a keen physicist, her grasp of history was perhaps a little weak… but _still.) _

The headmaster coughed gently, bringing Alan's little alternate history class to a close.

"As I mentioned earlier," he told the boys, "a considerable distraction."

Then, bowing slightly toward the red-faced teacher,

"Thank you, Ms. Wilde. That will be all. I shall see you this evening at chapel."

_Chapel?_

Alan scowled. Once the young woman had drifted away toward supper with Boye in her wake, he blurted,

"Okay… that's not, like, _mandatory,_ is it? 'Cause, I don't do the "Now I lay me down to sleep" thing, Dude. I don't, like, believe in 'religion'."

The headmaster's face lost its slightly avuncular, patient expression.

"Yes, Master Tracy; chapel is _quite_ mandatory. Each day after dinner, you shall dress appropriately, attend service, behave respectfully and grow wiser by absorbing the moral truths of our founding fathers. Ipse scientia potesta est… even when that knowledge is couched in parable. Do I make myself clear, sir?"

Alan spat out his now flavorless gum, striking the stone floor by Case's left shoe. The air between them had grown electric.

"As mud, Dude. And I'm not going, not even to sit like a good boy and pretend, got it? I don't sit in pews, I don't sing, and I don't pray. Don't like it? Oh, well; dial 1-800-WAAAH! It's, like, not happening."

Or, so Alan imagined. The silver-haired headmaster folded thick arms upon his barrel chest, saying,

"These mindless verbal tics of yours… 'like' and 'you know'… reduce your evident IQ to approximately 80, Master Tracy. Henceforth, each inappropriate use of 'like' or 'you know' shall result in a behavioral demerit."

Alan exploded.

"_Bite_ me, Grandpa! That's, like, un-American! You can't tell me how to talk!"

"One demerit," the headmaster intoned, as Fermat and his friends looked on, aghast. The younger boy's mother reached over, whispering,

"Alan, maybe you ought to just…"

But he shook her off, too angry by now to listen, or to think.

"_Hey_, I didn't ask to come here, y'know? And I sure as heck…"

_"Two_ demerits," Case announced; his voice rumbling like an Old Testament prophet's.

Alan flung down his book-bag.

"Okay, this is, like, the stupidest-dang-sorry-excuse for a retarded school I ever heard of! I'm calling my dad_ and_ mom right now, and I'm getting, like, reporters to come out here and crawl through your crap with a microscope! My brother's a hacker, and he'll, like, empty your bank account and switch your identity when he finds out about this garbage! You won't have any students left 'cause of your new prison record, and you'll have to hold, y'know, bake sales and stuff, just to afford dog food! How many demerits is _that,_ Porky?"

"Twelve, including the childish threats and insulting personal references. I believe you shall spend this evening's free period, and each of the next five, polishing furniture in Langley Hall. Perhaps that will, er… 'cool your jets', Master Tracy."

Alan gasped aloud. Only the steadying hand of Myrna Bremmerman, Fermat's mom, prevented him from swinging on the guy.

"You can't _do_ that! It'll harm my self-esteem!"

Case smiled. Hands in his trouser pockets, rocking comfortably back and forth on his heels, he said,

"Actually, per the contract signed by your father and witnessed by Dr. Hackenbacker, I _can._ To quote the US Marine Corps, Master Tracy: no one has ever yet drowned in his own sweat._ Tonight,_ after chapel, Langley Hall; with a dust rag and a can of linseed oil. That will be all, sir."

The headmaster turned to go, and then paused again, having recalled another matter.

"_Do_ pick up your rudely ejected gum, as well. You'll be wearing it upon your forehead throughout dinner, after which… depending upon your attitude and demeanor… you shall be allowed to throw it away in the correct receptacle, prior to receiving your class list. Otherwise, you shall have acquired a new appendage. Good _day,_ Master Tracy."

_Busted. For now..._


	6. 6: Collision Course

Edits are on their way, promise. Thanks for the reviews, ED, Tikatu, Sam1 and Bluesweetie. :)

**6: Collision Course**

_International Moon Station Quarantine Habitat, Peary Crater-_

They sat down to eat, dispersed about the square plastic table like this:

Pete McCord was first, on the side facing their habitat's television screen. To his left, John Tracy; chair angled slightly away from the closest camera. Beside John was his wife, Dr. Bennett, with between them their daughter, the mission's junior crewman. Roger Thorpe sat with his back to the TV, that 'just so' positioning of his massive frame blocking the second camera's view. Kim Cho was Roger's fiancée. She had placed herself between the Marine and Pete McCord, almost directly across from the baby… who was far too confused and fussy to eat. Not even Froot Loops and strawberry milk would tempt the thumb out of Janie's mouth.

Most outside observers (not knowing them well) would have seen three men, two women and a small child lingering over their breakfast of protein strips, dried fruit and powdered eggs. The observers would have noted just one level of conversation; hearing plans for their first day back on Earth, mostly.

What the watchers would _not_ have seen… especially if monitoring a bank of wall-cams… was the crew's actual meeting. Conducted in modified American Sign Language, with hands held low and gestures kept very small, it went this way:

Pete, speaking first, signed,

_"Long way past wrong, into scary. Can't trust WG here."_

He finger-spelled 'WorldGov', which had no handy sign. As Roger boasted aloud about how much he planned to eat when he finally reached Samoa, Pete went on,

_"Need information. Tracy?"_

Their pilot had been holding Junior in a standing position on the table, encouraging the baby to make walking motions with her legs. Handing the small girl to his wife, he turned one shoulder slightly and signed,

_"Can call now. Access possible from berth, but will need confusion."_

_…_By which he meant 'cover' or 'distraction'. They understood, watching almost casually as John signed,

_"Will reach NASA; ask what-hell?"_

Naturally, 'hell' was the one sign Janie picked up on and tried to imitate. Her mother diverted her by pointing to Cho and saying aloud,

"Crawl to Cho, Kara Jane. Big girls on Earth don't get carried. Go on, Honey-bun… crawl to your auntie."

Kim Cho smiled and extended both hands, clapping them lightly together to summon the baby and to keep attention away from McCord, who was signing,

_"Search health files, WG internal comm. Astronauts… quarantine… anything else you think."_

John made a slight nodding motion with one clenched fist and then took over the job of verbal distraction. Raising his voice a bit, he gave a detailed crawling tutorial to Janie, who kept falling on her tummy. Even one-sixth gravity was more of an enemy than she had teeth for, just then. At last, John simply grabbed a handful of her terrycloth pajama and held the child off the table while she clumsily moved her hands and knees.

"You're making progress," he told her aloud, when the determined baby finally reached Cho.

After kisses and cereal, and a chance to tug her auntie's black hair out of its knot and onto her shoulders, Janie was ready to try again. Back to Daddy, this time. Beneath all this activity, Linda Bennett signed,

_"Would think infection, Pete, but no. Why? Not sick. Just little flu, little weak. Gravity, not bugs."_

Her taut expression, and the way she dumped half a bottle of hot sauce on her rubbery eggs and crumbled protein strips, were most vehement.

No one here was ill, damn it! A bit flu-ish, yes, but that was to be expected when resuming human contact after nearly three years of isolation. As Linda spooned up a load of heavily-spiced eggs, John continued his lessons.

"Now the left leg, Janie… Slide it forward. Right hand… there you go. I'm going to let you handle a little weight, now. Don't try to move, just brace. Ready?"

The child (breathing rapidly) nodded agreement.

"Okay, Daddy."

Cho leaned halfway across the table, hovering over the little one and incidentally blocking any west-camera observer's view of Roger, who then signed,

_"At time-go, can crack lock, open doors."_

_"Stand by for signal to move,"_ the mission commander replied, keeping his gestures hidden behind their wobbling junior crewman. _"Will need pick up, if all sure not carrying something from Mars."_

Then he glanced at Kim Cho, who frowned delicately. She was a pretty thing, small in stature, and deeply studious. Her signs were gentle and flowing, lacking the forceful chop of Roger's, or the clipped separation of Linda's. _Her_ sign was almost a dance.

_"Pete, there is no perfect sure. Possible always surprise. But still have virus for E-ferro and E-cyano in ship. Can change to medicine, if must."_

Exobacter Ferrospirilum was the microbe that had begun disintegrating their vessel's exposed metal en route to Earth. Exobacter Cyanococcus had seemed pretty harmless by comparison, merely photosynthesizing like mad and coating every available surface in slimy, greenish-blue film. Question was, had either of the bugs mutated?

By this time, Junior had made her second successful trip across the table, kicking Cho's plate into her lap in the process. When she'd reached her father again and was lifted up to ride against his shoulder, the little girl whispered, in a very small voice,

"Daddy… why we talking two ways?"

John rubbed at her sweat-dampened back, replying just as softly,

"I'll explain later. We're being looked at."

"Bad peoples?"

…People, maybe, with needles for blood? Or guns, like on TV?

"Possibly. Quiet, now."

Janie's hug tightened convulsively.

"Okay, Daddy. I quiet. Gonna be okay, right? Right, Daddy?"

"Yes. It will be." Because it was his job to make sure.

Under cover of Cho's elaborately noisy clean up, Pete signed,

_"Time to make things happen. Stay ready. Tracy will contact his 'friends' for plan-B ride home if Houston not accessed. Next meeting tomorrow, AM."_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Manhattan Island, New York-_

Scott Tracy arrived at NYPD's busy 6th Precinct well before Brains returned from Wharton. He strode through a set of scarred double doors with his new cat (a particularly mangy white female) and ran into immediate trouble.

"Sir," the duty officer snapped, "you can't bring an unsecured animal into the building. I'll have to ask you to find a box, or come back without the cat."

He was a big, dark-haired man; grumpy, tired and bang out of patience. He also had several stacks of rumpled paperwork before him, never a good sign.

Thinking quickly, Scott shifted the raspily purring feline to his right shoulder.

"This," he explained, "Is a _working_ animal. Thanks to many years' exposure to jet noise, I'm pretty deaf to high frequencies… things like fire alarms, for instance. If one goes off in the vicinity, Blanche will warn me, and I'll leave the building. We have a system."

Annoyed, the blue-uniformed officer glanced up from his logbook.

"Hell, mister, if the alarm goes off, _I'll_ warn you. No box, no cat, get it?"

"Let's say you're not in the room?" Scott asked, putting a little drama into his voice (he was loathe to just turn loose the stray, and didn't have time to hunt boxes). "Does 'the Americans with Disabilities Act' mean anything to you…" he squinted at the man's name plate. "…Sergeant Burke?"

The policeman sighed deeply. This being New York, he was long accustomed to off-kilter rich folks and their impossibly spoiled pets. Not that this particular flea-hostel looked all that well cared for.

"Mister, I been here since 3 AM yesterday. You got any idea what time it is _now?"_

Scott shook his head.

"Can't say that I do. Someone made off with my watch."

"2:45. In fifteen more minutes, this'll turn into a 24-hour shift. During that shift… just the highlights, here… there's been three homicides, twenty-two drunk-and-disorderlies, five fender-benders, a couple a' smash-and-grabs, and four muggings. Any idea how much sympathy I got for you, your hearing-ear cat, and your _watch_?"

A handcuffed drunk slouching on a nearby wooden bench roused himself enough to snicker, but Scott didn't turn to look.

"My guess would be, 'not much'?"

"Get the man a cigar," Sergeant Burke replied, yawning so widely that there were audible cracking noises. "Right the first time! Now… _once_ you've secured or ditched the animal, you can fill out a statement about your missing jewelry. Until then…"

He paused suddenly, as a new thought seemed to trickle its cautious way past standard operating procedure.

"Say… this watch of yours… there anything _special_ about it?"

Scott hesitated, stroking the cat's fragile ribs. Although it might not be safe to admit what his wrist comm really was, maybe telling _part_ of the truth would get it back?

"Yes, officer. It, um… transmits. A little. Looks like a gold Rolex, with diamonds. There's a ring, too; US Air Force academy, 2060… with a square blue stone. Um… and a wallet." Although that had probably been thrown away.

Burke's entire aspect changed. All at once, he planted both large, splayed hands on the desk top and levered his considerable mass out of his creaking chair. Had to be 6'7'' at _least_, Scott figured.

Looking over one shoulder, Burke shouted,

"HEY! Somebody get the cat-lover a bag… and a cup a' coffee! Cream and sugar?" the big man inquired.

Scott shook his head.

"Black, thanks."

"You'd be Scott, then?" the duty officer continued gruffly, once the plastic personals bag (for Blanche) and coffee (for Scott's nerves) had been delivered.

"That's me. You found my wallet and ID?"

"Not exactly. The wallet's down a toilet somewhere, most likely heading for the Hudson. Muggers never keep those, once they've snagged the bills. What happened was, about an hour ago, this kid comes in, bawling his eyes out. Claims he found a watch and pressed a button on it, or something, and then it starts talking to him. Some guy tells him… get this… that the watch is government property, and it's corrupted his ID chip. Tells him they're gonna explode in five minutes, if he don't get his ass to the nearest station house and get the chip 'defused'. You believe that? Naturally…"

Burke grinned, stirring about ten packets of sweetener into his own coffee cup. Judging from the officer's bleary gaze, all that sugar was barely propping him up.

"…I figured he was full of crap, 'cause he's been in here before, and not for finding nuthin', either. The kid's in and out of juvie every other week, seems like. Anyway, long story short, I confiscated the evidence and started pushing buttons on the thing, myself."

Scott's heart sank. Who had Burke gotten hold of? Dad? Brains? _Alan?_

"And?"

"Turned out the little crumb was halfway right. I had a conversation and got told to look out for a guy named Scott. So… if you'll sign right here, and fill out a statement, I'll send someone back to get your belongings. Thanks, by the way, for the ticket order. We don't usually sell that many at one sitting. Got loads a' friends, huh?"

Confused, Scott agreed. Not that he knew what the man was talking about, really, but things were going so well, he hated to seem negative.

When the numbered tray arrived with his wrist comm, cash and ring, Scott thanked Officer Burke and signed an affidavit of ownership. At this point, gear retrieved, he was free to go. Something bothered him, though…

"The kid who held me up," Scott asked. "What's going to happen to him?"

Burke's relieving officer had arrived, but the big man answered Scott's question before heading for the locker room.

"Julio? Tough to say. It ain't his first offense, so the judge won't likely let him off easy. Armed robbery's no joke, even if you _don't_ fire the gun... which was reported stolen from a pawnshop just last week, as luck would have it. Put it this way, mister… if I was him, I wouldn't be making no long-range plans."

Scott nodded, thanking the exhausted sergeant for his help. He'd scored a name, though, and intended to follow through; to see if there wasn't some way to salvage the scared kid he'd sensed behind that shaking voice and stolen weapon.

Once outside again, Scott flagged down a cab. All at once bone-tired, he slipped into the back seat, grunted an address and then keyed up the privacy screen. He needed to make a few calls, but first, Scott fished Blanche out of her 6th precinct personals bag and arranged a cushion for her using his suit jacket. She curled up, made one or two swipes at her thin tail by way of toilette, and then purred herself to sleep. Definitely, a keeper. And the weird thing was, he'd never much liked cats.

The wrist comm was next. On a hunch, he called John.

_"Hey, Scott,"_ his younger brother responded quietly. Once again, he appeared to be in some kind of closet, the image bouncing around as his wrist comm and hands moved. _"I see you got your things back. If this is a 'thank you' call, you're welcome and good-bye. If there's more, keep it short. I'm working."_

Nice. Scott was too accustomed to John's intensely focused nature to be offended, though.

"Yeah, thanks. Listen, John; did you tell the kid who robbed me…"

_"That his left arm was about to depart this mortal plane? Yes. Might've been a little too graphic about the nanobots and circuitry, but I've never had to talk a criminal into turning himself in, before. Live and learn. Anything else?"_

John continued working as he spoke, never glancing away from his primary objective. His face was lit by a faint, shifting glow, and Scott could just make out the soft, continual clatter of a keyboard; typing away at his laptop, probably.

"What did Burke mean, when he said I'd bought a lot of tickets?"

_"Yankees/ Tigers exhibition game, to benefit the police and fire departments. 'You' bought out the whole upper deck and three sky-boxes, on your company expense account."_

Scott's jaw dropped, as he visualized their father's likely response to so massive, and foolish, a purchase.

"Benefit game? Why?"

"_Because I have a relationship to maintain with NYPD. We've assisted each other in the past, and probably will, again. I prefer to keep the men with guns and uniforms smiling, Scott."_

"But…"

"_Consider it a finder's fee, and next time, stay out of dark alleys."_

Scott would have argued further (or at least demanded his money back) but John went all at once as still and pale as a corpse.

"_Shit,"_ he whispered, staring at something that Scott couldn't see.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men, the dining hall-_

For the record, Alan Tracy did _not_ wear that massive lump of gum on his forehead. Nor, precisely, did he defy orders. He simply flattened the gum into a jaunty patch and wore it over his left eye, pirate-style. Got some of it stuck in his hair, but scored serious _"you can't control me"_ points.

Of course, conversation at their table was peppered with a great many puzzled double-takes. Some of his fellow students seemed mystified, others oblivious. A few were openly scornful, nudging their seatmates and nodding in Alan's direction. Not all, though. Kind of surprisingly, he got a few encouraging _"fight the power"_ grins. Not just from Fermat, either.

Whatever their reactions, Alan forced himself to stay relaxed and confident. He half-blindly chatted with Fermat on the left side and introduced himself to Chris Something-or-other on the right, having long ago learned that 90 percent of any situation was attitude.

When supper ended and 305 china plates were clear of Fettuccini Alfredo, asparagus tips, chicken parmigiana and crème brulee, Alan triumphantly stripped off the 'eye-patch' and received a schedule from Ms. Dent, the dean of upperclassmen.

…Funnily enough, at just about the same time that Gordon woke up from dodging curfew, with a pounding headache and a brand-new career path.


	7. 7: Decisions

Edits are on their way. Thanks, ED and Sam, for your reviews. :)

**7: Decisions**

_Johnson Space Center, Houston, Texas-_

In a place and time where politics were dominated by a shaky world government and a few giant corporations, national space agencies had very little recourse when things went wrong. And, just now, things were going very, _very,_ wrong.

The Ares III mission had been pronounced a success… until, just after entering their quarantine habitat on the Moon, the astronauts were seized by WorldGov's Public Health Ministry. Together with the Moon Station personnel who'd handled their blood and tissue samples, the astronauts were being held incommunicado. No calls, no visits, no explanations.

The American president had recently appointed a new director for NASA; Paul Crane, a relatively young man who excelled at dealing with red-tape and budget shortfalls. He was stretched to his limits now, though.

That morning, after conferring with his staff, Crane summoned mission director Gene Porter to his office, and arranged a conference call with WorldGov and the European Space Agency head, General Grigori Markov.

Crane was a forthright sort of guy. Rising from his desk, he said to the on-screen Health Minister,

"Madame Chatterjee, I cannot protest in strong enough terms what's been done here. You can't simply declare eminent domain and take what you want. Those astronauts and station personnel are NASA employees and American citizens. They deserve a…"

Indira Chatterjee was a poisonously-still woman of indeterminate age, a Brahman by caste. She wore her slightly graying hair in a sleek knot, and sat perfectly upright, decked in the folds of a blue and gold sari. She did not blink very often, nor did her dark-eyed gaze stray long from Crane's face.

"Is not 'America' a member state of the World Government, Mister Crane?"

Her voice was quite musical, a mixture of her own Bengali dialect and the upper-class British schools at which she'd been educated.

"Having signed the Treaty of London, is the United States not bound by its dictates? Or does America regard itself, still, as something apart? Better, perhaps, than the rest of the global community?"

Crane's dark brows drew together over worried grey eyes. He took his glasses off, wiped the lenses with a Kleenex, and then very carefully put them back on.

"You're straying from the point, Madame Chatterjee… deliberately, I suspect. My objection to the actions of WorldGov has nothing to do with treaties, nor with lingering third-world bitterness. _You have our people. We want them back._ Or, failing that, we want a complete and satisfactory explanation as to why they're being held. Any time."

Added General Markov, scowling ferociously,

"We have, also, cosmonauts on Mars. When returning, will they not be seized, as well? This is question Russian people and European Space Agency must ask, Gospodina Chatterjee. Prince Nikolai, himself, he is awaiting response of WorldGov."

Under the circumstances, Gene Porter chose to remain quiet. Power plays at this level were more than he knew how to handle. He was the mission director, after all, not a diplomat or a gold-braid-and-medal-decked general.

Madame Chatterjee's nostrils flared slightly, but her expression did not change.

"Having been exposed to alien microbes… as your agency did not scruple to reveal, Mister Crane… the astronauts and cosmonauts of _both_ your states present a clear threat to the entire world. This matter is now very far beyond the isolated concerns of America or Russia. I would have thought, Mister Crane… General Markov… that, as the simplest way to resolve this threat would be its complete _elimination,_ you would show more patience with a benign quarantine."

Finished, she sat there like a snake; hard-eyed, silent and waiting.

"I see," Crane managed, after a moment. His hands were curled into impotent fists, but his voice was calm when he said, "Thank you for your honesty, Madame Chatterjee. We will… remain in touch."

Very gracefully, with a small, triumphant spark in her liquid-dark eyes, the Health Minister inclined her head.

"Of course, Mister Crane. Any further petitions that the United States or European space agencies have to place before the World Government will be heard by my office. The president and vice president need not be troubled. Good day, Gentlemen."

A threat. They'd just been handed an extremely unsubtle _threat_ against the lives of astronauts and station personnel, both.

Once the Health Minister's image had faded from his right wall screen, Paul Crane turned to glance at General Markov, thousands of miles away in frigid Baikonur. The grizzled Russian shook his head.

"I would be more believing her, if she were not former head of World Defense Ministry, Gospodin Crane. My… ehm…'gut' (as Americans say) feels that she lies. There is more to matter than public health, alone."

Crane nodded, heavily. It was at this point that Gene Porter cleared his throat for attention. Crane was new; there were a few things about NASA he wasn't yet aware of.

"Paul, we have a good working relationship with International Rescue. Not that I think it's time to call in the troops… but it might be wise to let IR know what we've learned. You know… bring them up to speed, as a contingency plan."

…Especially considering that John Tracy was tacitly known to be an IR team member.

"Is true," Markov agreed, rubbing his big, square hands together. "ESA has partnered in past with International Rescue. I _also_ suggest we make… very quiet… phone call, Gospodin Crane."

Thinking, _'Two weeks on the job, and already I've got an emergency…'_ Paul shifted some papers around on his desk. Didn't help anything, really, but gave him time to reach a decision.

"All right, Gene… I'm putting you in charge of notifying International Rescue… but I want it understood that until we find out how much of a threat to public health our people represent, _nobody_ moves. I want them back safely, yes; but not at the risk of a global pandemic."

Gene didn't like it, but he had to agree. Smoothing down his binary-print necktie, he said,

"That's affirm, Paul. I'll contact IR just as soon as this meeting concludes. We'll get things set up, at least."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Madrid, Spain, the men's athletic dormitory, Room 304-_

Getting drunk with one's mates was a dodgy business, most especially if the afore mentioned lads were a clever, mischievous lot and prone to excess. Gordon awoke in his dorm room one morning, convinced that bits of his skull had worked loose and were, in fact, scattered about the premises, liberally smeared with headache.

Spears of hard sunlight crept between the window slats to stab at his half-open eyes. The world swam and spun as sickeningly as a fairground ride, and his throat was raw with thirst. He'd have heaved the entire contents of his stomach then and there... had there been anything left to jettison. Cramping nausea struck at him, anyhow. Bit too much of the good stuff, he assumed.

There was no lavatory in the dormitory bedrooms, Gordon knew, just a public facility further along the main corridor. Too far. They might as well have put the wretched thing in bloody Paris. And all at once, he thought,

_"The Paris Open…"_

Experimentally (assaulted on all sides by loud, choking snores) Gordon Tracy attempted to push off his blankets. But even that feeble motion sent shards of imaginary skull popping off into the void, trailing long streamers of pain.

Gordon shut his eyes and left off pawing the blankets. There weren't enough letters in 'ouch' or curses in the English language to deal with all this, so instead he began apologizing aloud to God, the Virgin Mary and each Saint whose name he could bring to mind; vowing never, _ever_ to mix spirits and lager, again.

At the far end of the room, Royce lifted his head from beneath a tightly-clutched pillow. Firing a glare as red-eyed and hostile as a rabid dog's, he snarled,

"Shut y'r noise, can't you? Let a bloke breathe 'is last in peace!"

They'd done well at the Paris Open. Squinting between the cracks of his hangover, Gordon recalled shimmering water, a long black line, and the far wall's beckoning touch pad. For just an instant, he felt the gritty starting block beneath his feet as he flexed his body into the down position, coiled and ready.

A mere practice run, McMahon had scoffed… but he'd been terribly chuffed, just the same, when Gordon placed first in the men's 300M butterfly and then took second in the 400M individual medley. Proper stuff… so why did he feel so bloody awful? Oh, yes… quite full of themselves after sweeping the Open, McMahon's team had once again violated curfew.

A true hero is measured by his ability to rise from the depths of a hangover, Gordon decided; literally forcing himself to sit up. Not, as it turned out, a good idea. Each time he closed his eyes, he visualized swarms of tiny, bottle-shaped imps, all of them armed with sharpened paper umbrellas or cocktail toothpicks.

To hell with mixing; never again would he _drink._ Not with Royce ("put you under the table, I can") Fellows, anyhow. What was it McMahon had said? That he had a drink team with a damn swimming problem?

Aspirin. Somewhere, there resided a cool, white, beautiful world of porcelain and chrome wherein lay the blessed, holy aspirin bottle. If only he could dredge up the strength to reach it.

"Come, lad," he told himself. "Up, y' get."

Royce gave a single, spasmodic heave and flung his pillow. He missed Gordon entirely, striking Erik, who was too far gone to emit more than a deep, sobbing groan. A bit further over, Damien muttered something that would have gotten him killed, anywhere else.

Right; degenerate human wreckage, the lot of them. Not his sort, at all. Onward…

Gordon was nearly up (his legs were off the bed, at least) when something odd happened. A colorful brochure and folded yellow paper slid from beneath his blankets and onto the carpeted floor. What was this, then?

Confused, the young swimmer managed to lean down a bit and grab for the most easily seized document, that fallen brochure. Wringing concentration from his stunned and throbbing brain, Gordon brought the paper within range of a painful squint.

_WASP_?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men-_

The schedule was printed out for him on heavy, cream-colored card stock; looking more like an invitation than a class list. Unfortunately, as far as Alan Tracy was concerned, it might as well have been the summons to a wake. His own. (Not that he believed in such things. According to his mother, once you died, your spirit dissolved back into the great universal energy field. Period. End of subject.)

Anyway… yeah; the schedule. On weekdays, the student body "sprang from bed" at 6:30 AM, "washed and tidied" until 7:00, and then trooped merrily over to good ol' Stanton Hall for breakfast. (He had to give them that much, though; the food _was_ good.)

The day's first meal lasted until 7:45, with a 15 minute passing period afterward for restroom breaks, book-fetching and getting to class. But, hey; the fun was just beginning!

First period, he had English Lit, taught by the glum and frowzy Catherine Prince. She had puffy brown hair and a seamed, webby face. Looked like a really depressed shrunken head, and felt that everything important had been written in the 15th century. Alan didn't read very well, thought dead authors were creepy and figured Shakespeare was, like, an action verb. Needless to say, he did not expect to have a rollicking good time in English.

Second period was devoted to Algebra, the single most frightening thing on the planet… worse than the dang Hood, even. The class was taught by Blaise Deckard, who looked five years older than Alan, himself. Acted all serious, though, parting his tan hair to one side and always wearing suits to class.

Third period looked like it _might_ be sort of interesting. That was biology class, and supposedly Alan was going to be given a scalpel and frog eyeballs, or something. Cool!

The teacher reminded him of Brains, except without the stutter. Sort of a sloppy, absent-minded guy; the kind who'd start to introduce himself and then forget what he'd been talking about. Chemical preservatives were a dangerous thing, dude. _His_ name was Robert Kruppa. He had a scruffy brown beard, sandals and mismatched socks.

After Biology, it was back to Stanton for lunch, the social event of the day. Then, another 15-minute break to switch out books and pal around until…

Fourth period! Western Civilization, with the future Mrs. Alan Tracy, Anne Rowena Wilde. Okay, maybe she didn't realize it, yet, but they were practically _engaged_. Just a matter of time, for real.

If Western Civ had ended his day, life might have been worth living, but fifth period brought Physical Education. Lockers, jock-straps and public showering… yeah; Alan planned to be sick a lot. Like, every day.

Sixth period, he just didn't _grasp._ Why, universe? _Why Latin 1?_ What, exactly, had he done to deserve "I think, therefore I came and saw and conquered, in three parts?" Like, for real, who gesticulates nouns, or whatever? Cogito, ergo _stink._ Latin was the class he was going to spend a lot of time composing love songs and doodling in, Alan felt certain.

He had only one course with Fermat. Fifth period's "Basic PE for no-talent pencil necks". Bummer.

With Chris (Springfield, as in 'Springfield Pharmaceuticals', poor guy) he had English Lit, Biology and Moldy Romans.

…But all of this was in the future. At the time that Alan received his schedule, the biggest things looming on his horizon were chapel, heavy furniture and a can of linseed oil.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_New York, the back of a crawling yellow taxicab-_

Scott leaned close over his wrist comm, waking the little white cat. He had a lot on his mind, lately, with International Rescue, Cindy's unexpected 'no-kid' manifesto, the robbery and Alan's last shot at a decent school. Highest on his list of concerns, however, was the Ares crew's lingering quarantine. It wasn't easy, getting straight answers out of John.

"What's up? You've found something out?"

Slowly, his younger brother nodded. The wrist comm image had ceased bouncing around, for John wasn't typing any longer. He wasn't talking, either.

"John? What's the situation?" And then, reverting to their 'worst case scenario' code-phrase, "What's it like on the Western Front?"

John looked away from his laptop, just long enough to make eye contact.

"About as quiet as it could possibly get," he said.

_Damn._

"Okay, you guys hang on. We'll…"

"No. Don't do anything yet, Scott. It isn't safe. I need to… I've got to figure something out, so… I'll get back to you. I promise."

"All right." Scott nodded. "You go ahead. I'm going to let dad know what I've got so far. In one hour I'll call back, expecting a full run-down of your situation and the outlines of a safe extraction plan. Understood?"

"Yeah. Got it."

Scott signed off at once; leaving his brother crouched in the semi-gloom of a sleeping berth, some 240,000 miles away. John had faked a migraine for the chance to get a few moments' privacy. Just outside, Pete had on a recording of the 66 World Series, providing all the noise and cover they could have hoped for.

John worked quickly, risking detection in his overwhelming need to hurry. While speaking with Scott, he'd managed to access the Station's main computer (and people who used their own first names as a password deserved whatever they got). The bio-med site had been pretty well hosed, but John wasn't discouraged. When in doubt, check the trash.

Gaining root, he did some recycle bin sifting and brought up a few poorly deleted lab reports. These had gotten his attention, the same way that a wrecking ball would have.

Judging by the crew's test results, Ferrospirilum had changed. Apparently, the warm, moist interior of a human body was a choice environment, speedily altering the microbe they'd accidentally brought with them from Mars. The mutated bacterium had been given a name. _Exobacter Haemospirilum_, they were calling it. Bad enough news, but things just kept getting worse.

One of the lab technicians had copied and sent the test results to three separate IP addresses. Two of them were WorldGov; the Ministries of Health and Defense. One was a private computer somewhere in the Washington DC area, which troubled him for other reasons. The Red Path were known to operate in that area, and terrorist groups were about the last subset he needed involved in all this.

The Health Ministry John could understand. Why _defense_, though? Cracking a heavily-secured password list, John slipped into the Defense Minister's private files, meaning to find out. Since he was the one doing the digging, he decided to pull up his own file: _Tracy, John M._

Not good. There was a lot of medical jargon to sift through, but according to the latest tests, Haemospirilum was now the most common microbe in his body; concentrated especially in the blood stream, heart and spleen. Wasn't doing anything except consuming metabolic waste products, but that was beside the point. His body… his damn _immune_ system… didn't seem able to detect the invasion. He was exhibiting no response, whatsoever, to the most complete infection of his life. And all at once, John understood why certain members of the Defense Ministry might be interested in _E. Haemospirilum_.

Given such a fast-breeding, stealthy microbe, how difficult would it be to screw around a little with its genome; insert a few codons from a toxic sonuvabitch like _Vibrio Cholerae, Bacillis Anthracis, or Clostridium Botulinum?_ What you'd have then would be a nearly unstoppable, weaponized super-bug. A doomsday plague.

The fact that the next three reports outlined just such a procedure made it very difficult to think straight. Someone at WorldGov was attempting to build themselves the biological equivalent of a hydrogen bomb, using quarantine concerns as a cover-up. They had delayed the astronauts' release to buy time, because John Tracy, Roger Thorpe, Kim Cho, Pete McCord and…

(Resolutely, John pushed thoughts of Dr. Bennett and the baby out of his head. He couldn't make rational decisions, thinking like a husband and father.)

…Because the six of them held the world's purest supply of a potentially lethal weapon. The projected mortality rate was 93 percent, assuming that _Haemospirilum _could be modified. Before swinging into production, though, the 'health ministers' would want a quiet test of their altered microbes… on one of the Moon Station folk, maybe? Or a crewmate?

In twenty-three minutes, Scott would call back. In twenty-three minutes, John Tracy damn well needed to have a plan.


	8. 8: Race

Sorry to be so late. Edits are here. Thanks Sam, Cathrl, ED and Tikatu, for your reviews...

**8: Race**

_Washington, D.C.-_

Lamar Stennis left room 138 of the Dirksen Senate Office Building, a deeply dissatisfied man. His oration before the press and his fellow senators had been fiery; their response, less so. In fact, WNN had actually broken off coverage in the middle of the senator's speech, apparently to air commentary from Cindy Taylor (a woman too smart for her own good).

Stennis was a man who put on a very good public show, but who inside was cold, hard and (most of all) cunning. In height, weight and appearance he was average; brown hair, pale eyes, ready smile and handshake. By profession, a politician. His ultimate aims went far beyond re-election, though.

Ultimately, what Lamar Stennis wanted was purity, a total cleansing such as Earth hadn't seen since the Flood. As secret head of the Red Path, Stennis had long intended to force this cleansing; ridding the world of its excess people and corrupting technologies. Now, he actually possessed the means.

The three things he hated most, in no particular order, were NASA, WorldGov and International Rescue. NASA was a titanic waste of resources, in the opinion of Lamar Stennis. Had mankind been meant to fly to the Moon or Mars, God would have given him wings and space gills. WorldGov encouraged the survival of worthless, non-productive people. They kept feeding the ignorant, polluting masses which ought simply to starve to death, if they couldn't fend for themselves. International Rescue upheld NASA and WorldGov, both.

In public, Stennis spoke out earnestly and voted against these organizations. In private, he did far worse. Together with scores of deep cover agents planted throughout Earth and the Moon Station, he strove for nothing less that total abolition of the World Government.

He got disturbingly few questions from the press after his speech, and this put Stennis in a bad mood. Rebellions, after all, need sympathetic coverage if they are to spark and grow.

All the way through the Dirksen Building's granite and glass lobby he nevertheless smiled and nodded at those politicians and activists whose paths he crossed. You simply never knew who might be in a position, sometime, to swing a vote or referendum your way.

Vicente Vargas met with the restless senator in his office.

"Hold my calls, Pearl," Stennis ordered his secretary. "I'll be in conference for about an hour."

"I'll do that, Lamar," she replied, glancing away from the letter she was typing. The familiarity irked him, but Stennis was too smooth to betray his feelings. Soon enough, if all went according to plan, the woman's unwelcome liberties would cease.

"Thank you, Pearl," he said, ushering Vargas into the small office before him. The door shut and locked before his grey-haired secretary could respond.

"Anything new?" he asked Vargas (a tightly-coiled steel trap of a man).

Vicente Vargas nodded, once, indicating the office view screen.

"There is video from the quarantine habitat, Senor. The feed is slow, however."

"Put it on."

As always, Stennis removed his dark suit jacket and red necktie before taking a seat at the desk. (He did not own so many suits that he could afford to be careless about stains and wrinkles. Always brought his own lunch, too; olive protein loaf and cheese, today.)

The digital video came up at last, showing the Ares crew around a table; eating breakfast, apparently. There was also a small, blonde girl.

"Cute kid," Stennis observed. Then, shrugging, "Doesn't pay to be born in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess… and puppies grow up to be bitches, if you don't have them put down."

He hadn't been watching very long when he began to notice things; hand gestures, for instance, often combined with a forward-leaning, eyebrows-together questioning posture he'd seen before, at a crippled-kid photo op.

Stennis snorted rudely.

"Looks like our road-tripping friends have found another way to communicate. Planning a jail-break, would be my guess. Speak any sign language, Compadre?"

"No, Senor."

Vargas had a truly restful gift for stillness and silence. Like a powerful handgun in a desk drawer, all he did was wait. Stennis appreciated that.

"No big deal; like I say, it's not too hard to figure out what's on their minds, especially with that woman doctor yapping about her 'professional opinion'. Pretty-boy's got his hands full."

The senator finished his sandwich and carefully tidied the wrapper and scattered crumbs.

"I don't trust that bunch to sit around like good boys and girls, incubating pathogens for us," Stennis decided, once lunch was over and his desktop once again spotless.

Certain factions in the Red Path wanted to wait; to withhold the plague until their chosen ones could be innoculated with an antidote. Not Stennis. Let the era of machines end now, in flame, terror and disease.

"We're moving forward," he announced. "Have the deep covers pull two astronauts out for phase-I testing."

Vargas nodded once more, and began typing away at a handheld internet tablet.

"Which two, Senor?"

"The head and the stinger; I'm eliminating McCord and Tracy, now, before they can cause any trouble. While you're at it, whistle up Stirling. I've got another job for him."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island-_

Jeff received three private phone calls in rapid succession, each one worse than the last.

Cindy Taylor interrupted his late-night poker game with Virgil, her news quite urgent, if flippantly delivered.

"Hey there, Captains of Industry. If you can take a short break from calculating your wealth, I have a message for you, from son number two; the flowers-and-rainbow guy."

Jeff massaged his grey temples, and sighed aloud.

"Go ahead, Miss Taylor," he replied.

Across the desk from him, Virgil chuckled quietly (feeling suddenly better about certain issues of his own).

Cindy ignored him, saying,

"John tells me that he and the other astronauts are physically fine, and he insists that there's no reason for the World Health Ministry's on-going quarantine. I promised him that I'd let you know, and then try to find out what the nice people at WorldGov are up to."

Landslides often begin with the tiniest rumble and a handful of rattling pebbles.

"Thank you, Miss Taylor. I appreciate your passing on my son's message. I'll…"

The International Rescue hotline lit up, this call originating from Houston, rather than New York City.

"Hold on, please. I've got another call coming in." Jeff switched lines, applying an armada of encryption protocols.

"This is International Rescue. What is your emergency?"

It was Gene Porter, the Ares III mission director. To Jeff Tracy's distorted image, he said,

"Yes, ah… this is Gene Porter. I'm in charge of operations for Ares III."

Jeff knew the man, of course, but there was security to maintain.

"I'm receiving you loud and clear, Mr. Porter. Go ahead."

"Thank you… and I need to let you know that this call is being made in strictest confidence, Sir. More than people's jobs are at stake, here."

Leaning forward, blue eyes fixed on what to him was a blurred and shadowy image, the mission director plunged on.

"As you may or may not know, my flight crew has been detained on the Moon for nearly a month, now. No reason given. Contacting WorldGov only got us ordered to cease asking questions, or risk having our astronauts 'eliminated' as a threat to World Health. Now…"

Gene paused, straightened his tie, and chose words as carefully as he would have picked out a fly-fishing lure.

"…NASA and International Rescue have had a long and successful relationship. Understand, though, that I'm not asking you to endanger peoples' lives by bringing potentially contaminated astronauts back to Earth. I'm just officially warning IR that something's gone wrong, and that the gut feeling out here is that WorldGov is up to no good."

Jeff and Virgil Tracy were both rigid with unspoken tension, by now.

"Understood, Mr. Porter. The situation will be investigated… _quietly."_

Porter's call had scarcely ended, when Scott got through with an even more alarming message.

"Say again?" Jeff demanded. He had, after all, not just a son, but an old friend, a daughter-in-law and a grandchild up there.

"I finished thanking John for getting my things returned, and then asked him how matters were, out on the Western Front. He said, and I quote: _about as quiet as they could possibly get',_ which I take to mean…"

"…that the Ares crew are in mortal danger," Jeff cut him off. "Very well, Scott; you're to collect Brains and return to base, ASAP. Use full Shadowbot coverage and do whatever you have to, but _hurry._ I'll have Gordon summoned and Thunderbird 3 prepped for launch."

Virgil was already up and moving, not needing further instruction.

"Did he say anything else?" Jeff asked.

Scott gave a non-committal, frustrated sort of shrug.

"Just that he had some stuff to figure out. I'm calling him back within the hour, sir, to get the details, and a workable lunar extraction plan."

Jeff stood. Rubbing his hands together (a nervous habit of his, when thinking quickly) he said,

"The Moon Station's changed some since my day, but I can still find my way around. I'll pull up the current specs; you maintain contact with the crew, through your brother, and tell Brains to start thinking about vaccines, antibodies, sterilization techniques… any way that we might safely deal with a serious biological threat."

"Yes, sir," the fighter pilot replied, his image flickering as he pressed a button to glance at the time, "I'll get right on that, and call you back once I've spoken with John and Brains. You can expect me back from the mainland within the day."

"Good boy. Keep in touch."

Jeff signed off. The trouble with being at the center of things… the man who held all the strings… was that too often, all you did was snap orders and then stand by, while others carried them out.

Not this time. On this particular mission, astronaut Jeff Tracy would be returning to the Moon.


	9. 9: Care Package

Written in New York, posted in Jersey... edited soon.

**9: Care Package**

The Moon Station personnel had been confined to quarters by a well-armed health emergency team. No one was allowed to venture forth, and confusion was rife.

Not that there was nobody talking. Through means such as Morse code tapping and listening at air vents, Commander Riley received many tales, each wilder than the last. The Ares astronauts and half of his own crew had already expired, he heard. Crews from Earth were being dispatched to sterilize the Moon Station, rumor suggested… until he demanded that the speakers identify themselves. Then, the lies ceased for a bit.

Nevertheless, Commander Riley's attempts at roll call fell repeatedly short and the emergency team was alarmingly adamant; _no one _was to venture forth, at risk of being shot. Had he been less concerned, Riley might have heeded their warning, but his station and crew were in peril, and no one would agree to meet with, or answer him. The local computer network appeared to be down, so Commander Riley decided to risk leaving his quarters (having some notion of dodging that damned health team long enough to find the Ares crew and determine their condition).

He wasn't alone in his quarters, though. Sharing the cabin was Lacey Cartwright, his chief mining engineer. They'd had an understanding for quite some time, and when the public health teams descended, she'd chosen to stay with Philip rather than go to her own cabin, alone. They made an unusual couple.

She was blonde and hazel-eyed, in her mid-forties. He was tall and rather stocky, with silver hair and a dark moustache. Next month, should he live so long, Philip Riley would be 61 years old.

"Philip, I don't think this is a good idea," Lacey insisted, one hand upon the commander's right arm.

His eyebrows lifted like a couple of bushy question-marks.

"And why not? A moment past, you were volunteering to have a go, yourself."

She shook her head.

"That's different," Lacey snapped. "I'm faster, and _me_ they might not recognize."

Riley gave her his best charming smile. Leaning forward, he gently kissed the woman's upturned face.

"I shall be cautious, my dear. Not too much so, however; rather like our aged friend, Commander McCord, I am not yet ready for the fireside. Also, I know a number of useful override codes which can be input at the auxiliary control center, bypassing whatever's been done by WorldGov."

He paused, cleared his throat, then prompted the reluctant blonde, saying,

"That was your cue, my dear, to wish me an impassioned 'God speed', with perhaps a kiss or two thrown in for luck."

Commander Riley got his kiss and a traveling companion, as well, for Lacey Cartwright wasn't ready to let him tackle subterfuge and sabotage alone. Not when _everyone_ knew that it took a woman to get the job done right.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The Quarantine Habitat, berth 3-_

Panic, like worry, confusion and love, was worse than useless at a time like this; it was deadly. Preferring not to deal with any such things, John Tracy squashed a host of unwelcome emotions and kept his mind on business.

First, Cho's "medicine"; the bacteriophage viruses she'd prepared on _Endurance_ to handle _ferrospirilum_ and _cyanococcus_. Bacteriophage meant "bacteria-eater", which was a pretty fair description of what these viruses did. Targeting only its specific prey, the bacteriophage would destroy each alien microbe it encountered, breeding billions of new viruses in the process and ending the bio-weapons threat. In Russia, such methods were preferred over antibiotics as a means of dealing with rampant bacterial infection; fewer side effects.

Of course, at the moment, these viral medicines were out of reach and useless.

_Out of reach,_ because Kim Cho had left them in a secured cabinet back on _Endurance;_ currently locked into circumpolar orbit around the Moon, and riddled with Ferrospirilum. It wouldn't be safe for another ship (Thunderbird 3, say) to simply dock with _Endurance_ and risk becoming infected.

_Useless,_ because each bacteriophage had been designed to target one of the original Martian microbes. They would need serious tweaking before they faced ferrospirilum's mutant offspring. Nothing Brains couldn't handle, if given a heads-up and something to work with. All that John had to do was provide him with viral raw material, from 240,000 miles away.

First, with an ear cocked toward the noises outside his berth, John accessed and awakened _Endurance's_ onboard system.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," he muttered, actually warming at the sight of her blinking command prompt and primitive interface. "How's the skin condition? Still spreading, huh? Well… we might have something that'll take care of it, soon."

His next move, once a quick status check and battery-warming procedure were initiated, was to hack into the remote maintenance bot, Scooter. When the need arose, the little drone could be flown over _Endurance_'s hull; maneuvered with short thruster bursts to image and repair damage. Otherwise, it was usually tethered to a small recharge bay.

"Up and moving, buddy. Places to go, people to see."

With fifteen minutes left, John applied a few shortcuts and roused Scooter, bringing the little maintenance bot back online. The recharge bay had two hatches, one opening onto the hull, one into the ship's interior. All he had to do was back Scooter out of its garage and into the ship, and John would have the means to reach those virus samples.

Whipping around at high speed, two miles over the lunar surface, Scooter and _Endurance _didn't have gravity to contend with. A few keystrokes remotely opened the inner hatch, while a micro-brief oxygen jet sent the drone gliding out of its bay. It was weirdly like a video game, using the arrow keys on his laptop, floodlights and a half-screen camera view to guide Scooter through the empty ship.

_Back… more left thruster… ¼ second right thrust… extend tether… __and__… forward._

Strange… using the little bot, he was once more drifting through _Endurance,_ his home of nearly three years. Quick, light taps to the arrow keys brought Scooter jetting along the main accessway, passing the medlab, tool locker and crew living modules as it went. The bot's lamp-beam slid over handholds he'd grasped, and hatch frames he'd cracked his head on; Velcro pads where he'd many times rested a tool or a clipboard. Junior's padded play space was there, with a hand-decorated blanket/towel floating just where she'd left it.

He was relieved when Kim Cho's lab area came into view, illuminated by the tilting, probing LED lamp. He had to brake Scooter, or end up with a dented maintenance bot; that took a little time, and about a third of its remaining thruster gas. Got it stopped in front of the biological samples locker, then extended Scooter's crab-like front arms (F8 and F7 keys, then shift and up or down arrow).

Cho's password was easy to remember, being a combination of her name, Roger's, and the Korean words for 'joy', 'luck' and 'prosperity'. She never changed it, either, which any other time would have bugged the hell out of him. Kind of worked in his favor now, though.

7.5 minutes till Scott was due to call…

The locker, properly accessed, creaked slowly open. And there, resting in their nests of grey packing material, were the sample vials. They looked like a pair of slim metal thermoses, capped with red rubber stoppers and biohazard seals.

Very delicately, John extended Scooter's left arm to seize first one vial, and then the other, depositing them both in the drone's cushioned tool bin.

Halfway there…

Checking the time, John had Scooter close the sample cabinet, then backed the drone away and retraced its gliding flight to the inner maintenance hatch. This time, Scooter would be heading outside.

It took him a few minutes with the calculator and notepad functions, but John came up with a workable flight path and launch time. He had to figure out where and when in _Endurance's_ orbit to release Scooter, and how much of a thruster shove to provide, in a hurry and without outside consultation.

As the outer hatch slid open and the maintenance bot's tether fell away, John programmed a last series of commands, saying,

"You're about to see a little more of the universe than JPL and NASA intended, Scooter. Thunderbird 3 will be along to pick you up in a day or two. So… in the meantime, try to stay out of trouble, I guess."

By the time Scott called, the hope-laden messenger was underway, sliding through cold space with uploaded copies of the Health Ministry lab reports and Cho's technical specs. Just to be safe, John forwarded another set to Brains, USAMRID and the CDC. Better too many options, than too few, he figured.

As to the cause of all this…

John was about to fire off a truly nasty trace route and attack combination (whiplash.vbs) when Scott called up.

"Skip the pleasantries," John cut him off, before Scott could ask how he was feeling, or something. "Just listen: I've sent you a care package containing some possible 'cures'. Turns out, I was wrong. We _are_ infected, with something sneaky, but usually harmless. Someone at WorldGov is trying to weaponize it, with help from the Red Path. I've sent you the messenger's flight path, so you'll know where to make rendezvous. The rest is up to Brains. Best I can do for now."

Scott's image ran a hand through its dark hair. He looked a lot like their father when he did that.

"What about you guys, and the Moon Station crew? When and how do we move in for extraction?"

John shrugged.

"Still working on that one, Scott. Priority one was ending _Haemospirilum's_ feasibility as a bio-weapon. Priority two is nailing the people who concocted this shit-scape. They have to be stopped, and my preference would be _permanently_."

Scott frowned.

"Understood, John, and if you'll step out of cast-iron hard-ass mode for a minute, you'll remember that you've got a wife, a baby and three friends who just might question their position on your priority list. Now, one more time… _what's the plan?"_

John blinked.

"Sorry. We'll find a way out of this cell, and see what's going on with Riley's people. Until then, stand by. I'll contact you once I've come up with a solid idea."

He hadn't time for much else because shortly thereafter the sounds from outside changed. Two people in full biohazard gear broke the seal on their quarantine habitat and stepped within.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_A scrubby, dry mountain top in Spain-_

By this point, he and Virgil had their swift, secret pickups as precision-tuned as an athlete's swimming stroke. A good thing, too, as he wasn't feeling well.

In any case, Gordon stood there in the chilly, pre-dawn stillness… but not for very long. On schedule, dark as a cobblestone in that pink-and-gold sky, Thunderbird 2 appeared and then began to descend. She could be quiet, when the need arose. Only the hiss and pop of steering rockets and an almost subliminal rumbling gave audible proof that the giant Bird was dropping straight at him.

She did not touch down. At about 100 feet over the rocky peak, hovering on full impellers, Thunderbird 2 opened her lower hatch, spilling ruby light and a rescue basket.

Gordon hoisted his rucksack to one shoulder and gave Virgil a brief wave, signaling the basket lower. All around his feet, small pebbles and twigs skittered sideways or were ground into the powder-dry soil, shoved about by 2's massive, broadly-spread weight. Rodents and lizards scurried away through the underbrush. Gordon felt that very same clear-through, throbbing pressure, but he was too well accustomed to be concerned, despite his lingering hangover.

When the metal rescue basket swung down low enough, he tossed his rucksack within, then took hold of its rubberized edge and climbed aboard. Once he'd settled himself, a tap to the face of his wrist comm set the dizzily spinning basket to climbing.

Gordon clung to an orange nylon strap, alternately staring at the broad, flat underbelly of Thunderbird 2 and then watching Spain twirl and recede below. His halfway-handsome face was unusually pensive. He had an important decision to make and very much wanted Virgil's input. Mostly because, of all his calm, level-headed older brothers, Gordon got on best with the artist, four years his senior.

The sun's bright edge had just broken the eastern horizon; casting long, slanting shadows that swung with the basket's motion like the hands of an odd watch. A shy wind sprang up, mussing Gordon's hair and team jacket. Spain, saying farewell. Silently, Gordon promised to return, and then turned his mind to the matter at hand, a dodgy bit of space rescue work.

Once inside Thunderbird 2, when the hatch slammed shut and the basket was locked into place, Gordon tapped his wrist comm again, adding,

"I'm well aboard, Virgil. You're good t' go."

_"FAB. See you up front, Kiddo."_

"Right." He had a few stops and a clothes change to make, first, but Gordon (armed, washed and uniformed) eventually made his way from main hold to locker to rear crew cabin to cockpit, where he strapped in beside his broad-shouldered brother.

"Hey!" Virgil greeted him, offering a quick, rough handclasp. "Good to see you again, Champ. Ready to face 'the final frontier'?"

(They were headed back to Island Base and thence to the Moon, it seemed; a first for Gordon, who'd not yet ventured so far.)

"That, I am," the young aquanaut decided, his quiet tone and downcast expression getting a long, searching look from Virgil.

As the pilot flipped a row of overhead switches and throttled up again, sending his cargolifter rocketing skyward, he asked,

"What's up, Gordon? According to ESPN, you guys kicked ass in Paris. Got another medal, didn't you?"

"Placed in several events," Gordon corrected, as Spain melted into blue, misty distance. "But medal's are handed out at th' Olympics… and it wasn't th' meet, as such; more what happened afterward."

Virgil reached into his armrest compartment and fished out a bottle of water, which he then tossed to Gordon. Over the roar and rumble of 2's enormous engines, he said,

"I got plenty of time, Kiddo. Feel like talking about it?"

Accepting the water, Gordon nodded.

"If you'd not mind. What happened was this: after the Paris Open, some of th' lads (myself, included) thought we'd dodge curfew to skylark a bit. Not th' first time, by any means. I must've had a few too many drinks, however, because th' next bit, I've no memory of, at all."

"What'd you do?" Virgil cut in, obviously worried. His brown eyes flickered often between Gordon's woebegone face and the instrument panel, and he hadn't begun inputting a course.

"Nothin' criminal," Gordon reassured him. "Seems that some of my less respectful teammates thought they'd have a bit of fun with our coach. Give him a start, as it were. The lot of us made our way directly from the third or fourth victory party to a WorldGov recruitment office, and pre-registered f'r military service. WASP, in my case. And… unless appealed… the term begins upon my 18th birthday."

Virgil blinked. In the brand new 'unified' Earth community, four years of military or exploratory service were compulsory for each citizen… unless he or she was in college (Denver Tech online courses, for Virgil) or actively pursuing an age-sensitive athletic career (like Gordon). NASA, ESA and the Japanese Space Agency counted, too. But given their no-love-lost relationship with WASP, his brother's choice seemed a little strange.

"Well… obviously you weren't in your right mind when you signed the paperwork, Kiddo… and Dad's got some first class lawyers he can put on the case. If you want out, I'm sure he can have those papers declared null and void by tomorrow morning."

Thunderbird 2 banked northwest-ward, describing an arc that would take her home within three hours.

"That's just it, isn't it?" Gordon blurted suddenly, shifting around in the copilot's seat. "I don't bloody _know_ what I want… except that, well… I did place my signature on th' paper, drunk or not… and that's as good as swearing an oath, isn't it? I mean, what would _you_ do, Virgil? Royce tells me I'm daft even t' think about actually joinin'.  
Virgil considered, rather proud that his younger brother's conscience was troubled over what had essentially been a schoolboy prank. On a sudden hunch, he asked,

"You're sick of swimming? Competitively, I mean?"

Gordon looked over at him with very wide, hazel eyes.

"Dunno," he said, at last. "Other than rescues and a bit of schoolin', I've done nothin' else but compete since I was 10. Nearly half my life's been spent in pools. What else _is _there?"

Virgil shrugged.

"In my case, it's mostly the rescues. Saving lives is a hell of a lot more important than football ever…"

_"American_ football," Gordon interrupted. "With helmets an' ruddy body armor. Not at all like proper footie, or rugby, either. Hardly a sport, at all."

"Shut up, smart-ass. You're wrong… and it sounds to me like you've got nothing left to prove in the water. You're so far ahead of the competition that it's gotten boring… like getting drunk three nights out of the week. Maybe you're just looking for more of a challenge."

So saying, Virgil went back to flying, leaving Gordon with a monster headache and plenty to think about.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_A small, private car in light traffic-_

Lamar Stennis had nearly reached home (a one-storey brick house in Winchester, Virginia) when a certain line on his cell phone went off. It had its own ringtone; an abrupt, angry hornet buzz.

He had to nerve himself to answer it. Not because he dreaded speaking to the caller (Indira Chatterjee, a very useful tool), but because he honestly hated the mindset that such a device represented. To him, technology was an evil and corrupting influence. A crutch for those too weak to survive through willpower and muscle, alone. Nevertheless…

Picking the phone up from the dashboard, Stennis flipped it open, pressed receive and said,

"I'm listening, go ahead."

In the next few minutes, as the senator crossed the last few miles between work and home, his WorldGov puppet began filling in the details of their preliminary testing..


	10. 10: High Voltage

Thanks for reviews, ED. Sorry so slow in replying/ editing. Tough to find internet time. Posted from Wisconsin, this time. Edited in Tennessee.

**10: High Voltage**

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men-_

He did and sort of didn't win the first battle of the chapel war. _No,_ they couldn't physically drag him into the big, hushed stone gallery, or force him to take a seat in one of those long wooden pews (polished smooth by many generations of squirming posteriors)… But they could make darn well sure that he didn't go anywhere _else_.

Alan learned, about an hour into Headmaster Case's booming Presbyterian sermon, that there was _nothing_ more boring than sitting on a hard bench in the candle-lit nave, half listening to a dense, chewy catalogue of sins. That evening, he certainly found out more than he wanted to about covetousness, _and_ had to listen to hundreds of reedy, cracking voices offering up _'How Great Thou Art'._

This, he stood for a further fifteen minutes. Then, he revolted. To the tail-wagging surprise of Boye and the utter shock of the pinch-faced proctor set to watch him, Alan leapt to his feet on the stone bench, struck a dramatic pose and bellowed a really kick-butt air guitar solo; part Fallout Boy, part Shock.wav and all raw, lower-lip-biting power. He ended with a spectacular flourish, leaping from the bench and into a long, graceful knee-slide after smashing his imaginary Stratocaster atop Boye's head. The big wolfhound was so excited by Alan's performance that he began running around the nave, barking like a phantom dog on a wylde hunt. Tackled the proctor, too, which was, like, a major bonus.

…And you sure could rack up demerits in a hurry at this place. Thirty-two and counting, dude.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Peary Crater, the Moon Station's quarantine habitat-_

The inner hatch opened with a sudden, sharp rush of air. Pete McCord had been sitting with the baby on his lap, explaining the finer points of World Series baseball. At the first sign of entry, he handed Junior off to her mother, and then turned up the television's volume; a prearranged signal.

Roger Thorpe looked up and scowled. He was hunched low over the table, working on something small and electronic which he put away as soon as the first hatch clicked open.

The mission commander got to his feet, as did Cho, Roger and Linda. John, of course, was still in his berth. Exactly fifteen seconds after raising the volume (timed under his breath, Navy-fashion, with _'If I wasn't a gunner, I wouldn't be here… If I wasn't a gunner, I wouldn't be here… If I wasn't a gunner, I wouldn't be here)_ McCord switched off the TV.

Linda's arms tightened around the baby, who buried her small face in her mother's neck when the bulky, yellow-suited figures entered their habitat. Janie shut her eyes and clung hard, using Mommy to block out change, yellow mens and gravity.

John left his sleeping berth a moment later, pale but composed. To McCord's questioning look, he responded with a very slight smile (another prearranged signal, considering how rarely John Tracy displayed emotion).

The mission commander made as if to address the health team, who had ostentatiously drawn their powerful electric stun-guns. Dr. Bennett beat him to the punch, though. Handing her whimpering baby to Cho, Linda stepped forward.

"Listen," she began, "I _demand_ to speak with whoever's in charge here, medically. I am a licensed, practicing physician and the flight surgeon for this crew. That said, I need immediate access to our medical records and consultation with whoever's placed us in quarantine. Do I make myself clear?"

Dressed like the others in a blue flight suit and sneakers, her brown hair curling and her face determined, she looked like a terrier facing down a couple of hungry bears.

The slimmer of the two 'medics' waved her aside, while the other one said,

"We're quite aware of your credentials, Dr. Bennett, and your requests will be handled as expediently as possible."

His voice sounded tinny and artificial, filtered as it was through his biohazard breathing apparatus. Worse, the containment suit's visor was mirrored, forbidding those outside from determining the direction of its wearer's gaze. He went on,

"In the meantime, we need to run a few simple tests on McCord and Tracy. Gentlemen, if you'll just…"

"What _kind_ of tests?" Bennett growled, taking only a short half-step backward, despite the biohazard team's drawn and flickering stun weapons. "Who's running them? What lab protocols are they applying, damn it!"

Pete shook his head, for Roger and John (being young and reactive) had both started forward; the one aggressively, the other with more vulpine, locked-gaze stealth.

"Stand down," he snapped, looking hardest at the big Marine. "You, too, doctor. If all they want is me and Tracy… I think we oughta give 'em what they've asked for."

Roger started to sign something, but the mission commander cut him off with a headshake. Not troubling to hide his own urgent gestures, Pete signed:

_"Wait. Seal-broken. When gone-us, you and ladies out."_

John didn't catch Roger's response because his attention was drawn elsewhere. Janie was squirming in Cho's grip, her little arms out-flung. The ID chip at the back of his left wrist warmed, but John stepped away.

"Stay where you are," he said, addressing neither Cho, nor the baby. "I'll manage."

He hadn't much of a choice, as very possibly the only thing keeping Junior's tiny body functional was the constant, pace-maker spark of a quantum entity. The wrist-tingle obediently ceased, and Janie settled back into Cho's arms; her face scrunched up in uncomprehending baby-tragedy.

Linda seized an arm and yanked him around to face her.

"Don't agree to anything, John," she whispered to her tall husband. "Not verbally; or written, either. Don't sign off on any experimental procedures, and if they try to force you into a medical trial, _demand_ _to_ _speak_ _with_ _Gene_. Understood, Sunshine?"

"Yeah. Got it, Doctor," the blond replied, leaning down to kiss her worry-puckered forehead. "Anyhow, Pete's got my back and I've got his. What could go wrong?" He half-way joked.

Linda made a genuine attempt to smile. Then a slim, yellow-suited medic tapped John's shoulder, gesturing with his or her stun-gun.

"Time to go," the field-specialist ordered.


	11. 11: Stunned

Hi, from North Carolina. Thanks, ED, Tikatu and Sam1, for your reviews. They are very helpful. Edits will come, though maybe not tonight. Weird schedule.

**11: Stunned**

_Winchester, Virginia-_

Senator Stennis drove several miles past his rented house rather than pull into the garage, for there was always a chance that a cell phone signal might be traced to his physical address. Best to be cautious when discussing something as important as the end of modern civilization, then. He could only hope that Indira Chatterjee, on her end, would be as careful.

"Our European preliminary tests have proven a modified success," she announced; like her leader, avoiding names. "The first-run sample was released in three locations, and has resulted in severe cramping and generalized influenza-like symptoms. Projections indicate that, had it been distributed in a mega-city such as Singapore or Johannesburg, three-quarters of the urban and slum populations would have been incapacitated for over a week."

Stennis turned onto another side street, trying to look as though his aimless driving had a purpose. There were cameras and chip readers on every other light pole; spying him out and adjusting the adverts being piped into his car. In this day and age there simply _was_ no privacy.

"Not good enough," he told her, keeping his voice low and unaccented. "A bad case of the squirts won't stop 'Big Brother'; only the pale horseman can do that. We need a _weapon_, not a toy. Fortunately, our people 'upstairs' tell me that they've developed a promising new strain… something that oughta do more than just send people scurrying for their toilets."

There was a short pause at the line's other end. Then,

"Sir, we have certain… reservations about the timeframe for ultimate release. No antidote has yet been developed. How will we protect our…"

Irritated, Stennis nearly ran a red light. Only slammed-on brakes and smoking tires prevented him from driving straight into on-coming traffic. Quick reflexes managed to save his life. The coffee tipped, though, hurling a cascade of hot liquid all over his lap. _Damn it! _It was a few moments before the senator grew calm enough to reply. Then,

"Don't worry your little head, Miss. The time frame is for _me_ to decide, and if we have to step on a few bodies to reach the new world, then that's just how it goes. Toughen up, or get out. Any further questions?"

"No, sir."

Naturally, he didn't trust her. As he ended the call and (finally) pulled into the driveway of his small brick house, Lamar Stennis reached over to the passenger seat and fished a yellow notepad from his open briefcase. Flipping to a certain page, he added a new name to the five already written below _'_Stirling'

_Indira_ _Chatterjee_.

Four widely-spaced marks in less than a week. The cyborg assassin was going to be a very busy half-man.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men-_

That evening after chapel, Alan was escorted to Langley Center by Headmaster Case, himself. Langley was a huge, musty old building, shrouded in moonlight, silence and memory. And there were, like, _tons_ of wooden things there: benches, cabinets, hand-rails… practically a whole chopped-down forest, which Alan Tracy was expected to mirror-polish all by his ownsome. Yeah, _right._

"I can't do this," he told the portly old gentleman beside him. "It's unconstitutional. We the People aren't supposed to be up past our bed-time, dusting the tomb of the pharaohs."

Drove Alan crazy, the way Case refused to get mad. All he did was smile, and rock back and forth on his heels like one of those loopy punch-the-clown dolls.

"It has been my experience, Master Tracy, that the very people who are swiftest to call upon the constitution are those who least understand it. "

Alan snorted.

"I understand that I've got _rights_, Dude, and that you're, like, denying them."

"Thirty-three demerits," Case sighed, handing the petulant teenager a big can of linseed oil and a rag. "You have a choice, of course… just as you had during chapel: you may rise to meet expectation, or you may resign yourself to a very long semester of solitary break-time, patrolling the quad for bits of paper and fallen leaves, come rain, storm or shine."

This guy had a back-up plan for everything, dang it! But Alan could be just as coolly stubborn. Very sarcastically, he said,

"I don't do windows or move furniture. If a ghost shows up, I'm outta here… and it's time-and-a-half for weekends and holidays, Jumbo. Take it or leave it."

Probably, he should have left out the 'jumbo' crack. Case shook his head.

"Disrespectful comments of a personal nature, five demerits."

"_Whoa_," Alan quipped, opening the square gallon can to slosh oil on a nearby bench, "Thirty-eight! Two more demerits, and I'm up to forty. Bet I hit a hundred before the…"

He paused, leaning forward to examine a long list of names chiseled into the stone wall above the oil-drenched seat.

"Bez… Bezaleel Croft? Increase Armitage? What kind of names are _those?"_

Case was entirely serious as he replied,

"This school is quite old, Master Tracy. These names date back to the first years of the Revolutionary War. General Washington had been soundly defeated by the British in Brookline and was in full retreat, calling desperately for volunteers. So… the entire upper class of Wharton students set forth to find and join the beleaguered Army of the Potomac. Nine of them eventually returned to complete their schooling. The rest perished in battle, and their names are here inscribed."

Alan stood there with rag in hand and oil puddling around his feet, having all at once nothing to say. Upperclassmen… that'd be, like, Gordon's age, right? Bunch of dang high school kids running out there with primitive weapons to join a defeated rebel army, and getting cut to pieces for their trouble.

Just for a second, he wondered what Bezaleel, Increase, Thomas, Malachi and the rest had been like, before they ended up chiseled forever in stone. Then, very quietly, he started polishing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The International Moon Station, Peary Crater-_

If Pete had a plan, it wasn't immediately obvious. Not that brute force would have accomplished much, under the circumstances. The mission commander and pilot were several paces ahead of their bio-suited captors, who were armed with taser-like stun guns. Nor did the corridor outside of their quarantine habitat provide many options, being short and straight, and leading directly to the station's abandoned medlab.

In the four-meter escorted walk from habitat to lab, there wasn't much that a pair of gravity-drained astronauts could do to free themselves. Not without weapons, anyhow.

"Open the hatch," one of the WorldGov medics ordered, when they'd reached the end of the dusty corridor. ('_Reid'_, according to his name tag. The other was '_Coates'._)

John was familiar enough with the Moon Station to require no further coaching. Just to the right of the oval hatchway, above a rectangular electrostatic dust-collection plate, was the hatch release mechanism; a silvery keypad. His code was JMT10-2043NASA, and out here it still worked, though it hadn't opened the habitat doors. Properly accessed, the lock clicked over, beeped once, and the hatch swung wide.

"Inside," Reid snapped, gesturing meaningfully with his stunner. John ducked within, surreptitiously scanning the lab for anything he might use as a weapon. A pair of observation cells had been set up, he noticed. Like the quarantine habitat, only smaller and far more spartan; a sarcophagus with a view. Nice.

As for the rest, a quick look around showed computer equipment… LED overhead lights… wall cameras… two padded examination tables and a metal instrument cabinet beside the far hatch. Otherwise, nothing.

Pete McCord stepped in behind him, and then moved around to John's left, creating room to maneuver. Their guards would have to split up if they meant to subdue the two astronauts.

The work tables were made of light aluminum; cheaply constructed and not bolted down. Possibly, he could flip one of the things over and snap a leg off for use as a club or spear… but aluminum would conduct electricity, meaning that he could be stunned while technically out of reach.

The first, taller field medic ducked partway through the hatch, about the same time that John spied a nearby computer keyboard. Not very conductive, but easily moved around for use as a blunt instrument or a shield. He headed over, and everything happened at once.

The medlab's far hatch chirped, and then swung open. John seized the keyboard and tore it free of its mounting, while Pete lunged across to slam the nearer door, smashing it into one of their captors and causing the man to drop his weapon. At the same time, the smaller field medic (_Coates_) jammed a stunner into Reid's side, and fired.

The weapon discharged with a sharp _CRACK,_ filling the air with a stench of melting rubber and burnt flesh. The unfortunate man jerked violently, his contracting muscles launching him halfway across the room and into a work bench, which collapsed loudly beneath him.

John dove for the fallen stunner, seized it and rolled to one knee, armed at last. Quickly regaining his equilibrium, he covered the near hatch while Pete whirled to face whoever was coming in from the other side of the room.

At this end, Coates stepped carefully into the lab, weapon re-holstered, hands up and clearly visible. As John shifted position to keep the entering medic covered, a yellow-gloved hand flipped up the mirrored faceplate, revealing wide blue eyes and a perfect, porcelain oval of a face.

"Lower your weapon, John, darling. As I am sure you now realize, we are _very_ much on the same side of this unpleasant little contretemps."

_Penny._

There were a lot of things knocking about inside him, clamoring for attention, but John concentrated on minutiae, flipping the stunner off and getting to his feet, for instance. His right wrist felt sprained, and he'd scraped one of his knees rolling over that damn keyboard.

Alarmingly, just as Commander Riley entered with one of his engineers, Lady Penelope removed the head cover portion of her biohazard suit. John took a step backward, saying,

"You need to put that back on, or get the hell out. McCord and I are both contagious."

Penny was unfazed. While Pete strode over to greet Riley (incidentally stepping hard on the fallen WorldGov medic) the young noblewoman approached John Tracy.

Okay… females were a source of constant surprise. This one, especially. Penelope stepped determinedly forward, placed a hand on his chest against the flight suit zipper, tip-toed up and kissed him. He'd begun a sharp comment, so she scored softly on his half-open mouth, the sensation a familiar blossom of sudden warmth. She tasted of high-end lipstick and some kind of mint, but after a jerky heartbeat or two, John pushed her away.

"That was stupid," he snapped, wiping at his mouth with one hand.

"But necessary, darling, as you can now have no objection to my unprotected presence. Whatever you are carrying is mine, as well, and we must perforce work together."

_"Or…_ you could try gargling with bleach." Pete had come back, trailing Philip Riley and Lacey Cartwright. "Just saying, is all. We appreciate the help, Miss…" (Leaning forward, he squinted at her name tag) "…_Coates_, but the WorldGov uniform and equipment makes you a little hard to cozy up to. Once bitten, twice suspicious jackasses, I guess."

John muttered something, then.

"Beg pardon?" Pete inquired, as Penelope turned gracefully to face her married former paramour.

"I said… It's okay. I know her."

McCord rubbed at his own sandpaper-y jaw.

"How well?" He demanded.

Penny's head lifted upon its swan-like neck and her slim little shoulders straightened. Her expression was tough to figure out… belonging, maybe? He really couldn't tell.

"Umm… we…" What was he supposed to say? That he was completely, deeply familiar with her? That she'd cuddled against him afterwards, smoking a cigarette and purring soft comments, more times than he cared to count? "We're friends. From before."

Pete glanced from John to Penny, and then back again, his face changing.

"Uh-huh. Got the picture," he said, grimly. "You're in, Miss Coates, exactly as long as you prove trustworthy. First sign of trouble, though, your scrawny ass is getting pistol-whipped, tied up and stuffed in a locker."

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward did not deign to respond. Not to the odious balding red-head, at any rate. Turning back to John, she gave him a nod and a very small, private smile. One which she was certain he remembered quite well.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, over the turbulent north Pacific-_

Perhaps it was more than just a hangover. At any rate, returning from his third visit to the head, Gordon began to stagger; clutching for anything near at hand that might break a crashing fall to the hard, up-rushing deck. Somewhere off by the cockpit, someone was shouting, but he couldn't…


	12. 12: Perspective

Posted from Wyoming, which was a very long drive. Sorry for the delay, will edit soon.

**12: Perspective**

_New York City, creeping along the upper deck of the George Washington Bridge, in a yellow cab-_

East coast cities did nothing for her. New York's enormous, glittering skyscrapers, its brawny steel bridges and snaking rivers in no way compared with San Francisco; especially when you factored in those omnipresent, scene-changing billboards. Being possessed of chip readers, they 'knew' she was there, trapped in a cab between giant advert signs, and they took full advantage of the situation.

Scanning her identity, employment status and credit balance, they could throw together a computer's best guess at what would please Cindy Ann Taylor and cause her to spend money. Their screens, you see, were composed of faceted tiny ridges, like one of those tilt-view picture cards, and each vehicle stuck in the George Washington traffic jam that evening got a different, tailored sales pitch. Cindy's leaned heavily toward chocolate, exotic coffees, adventure travel and shoes, with news crawls at the bottom from all four competing networks.

They'd picked up her comments about the astronauts, she was pleased to note… Still, enough was enough. A quick button-press darkened the cab's windows and dialed back its speakers and scent misters, probably rendering all that advertising powerfully subliminal.

Having work to do, she picked up her phone and dialed an old sorority friend at NASA's D.C. branch. Callie French was an administrative secretary, just highly enough placed to receive and pass occasional gossip, although this time, she hadn't much to share.

"I'm sorry, Cin, really. Nobody seems to know what's going on besides what WorldGov's been feeding us. The Health Ministry _insists_ that our astronauts are a public threat, and that the crew's being sequestered for their own good and everyone else's."

Cindy shook her head at the screen.

"That's a lie, Callie," she said. "I talked to John Tracy not thirty minutes ago, and he says that they're healthy as vegetarians. Not a thing wrong beyond some gravity readjustment issues. Callie you have to listen…"

Taylor leaned closer to the screen, staring directly at her platinum-haired, slightly zaftig friend.

"…WorldGov is _lying._ Please tell your director that the astronauts have contacted me, and that they're as fit and fine-tuned as a damn orchestra pit."

Callie French made a worried little face.

"I'll try, Cindy. Can't promise that he'll believe me, though, being a new guy, and all."

"Okay. Just do your best to get word to him… and let's get together for lunch, soon. You think?"

Callie smiled.

"_Definitely_. There's nothing going wrong with this world that a day-spa treatment and two-thousand dollars worth of Manolo Blahniks won't cure!"

They were both laughing by the time the call ended, having made plans to meet in D.C. at the end of the week. Cindy Taylor genuinely treasured the few friends she had… and Callie was particularly hard to get together with, having three young children, a big, fat divorce settlement and piles of eager suitors.

Next, still smiling, Cindy took a blind stab at the CDC. No friends there, but she had a good working relationship with Doctor Chambers, who sometimes dropped a few hints in her lap, if she flirted with him long enough.

"Well…" the skinny old man admitted, after she'd all but promised him a long weekend in Miami, "…besides a hantavirus outbreak in Nevada, and TB in Caracas, there's been only one other 'blip'."

Cindy's head tilted.

"Blip?" she repeated, sensing news.

Chambers nodded solemnly.

"Yes, indeed, pretty lady. A couple of field agents are being dispatched to Paris, France, and then to an athletic dorm in Madrid. It seems there have been unexplained bouts of severe botulism in both locations, and the feeling up top is that the food's gone bad at the local dance clubs. Contaminated tropical drink mixes, possibly. It happens."

"Hmmm… And you've heard nothing unusual from NASA? Or WorldGov?" Cindy prodded, flashing her best and brightest cover-girl smile for him. That particular look had been known to crack men a lot younger and less lonely than Dr. Tim Chambers, and it worked like a rabbit's foot, now.

Chambers gazed at Cindy through the phone screen, willing to imagine that her mega-watt smile and close attention actually meant something.

"I shouldn't be telling you this. Nothing but a hoax, probably…"

"Yes?" Cindy tucked a stand of dark hair behind her right ear. "Go on, Tim."

Dr. Chambers capitulated, blown away by the smile and languid grooming motions.

"Just a rumor, you understand, Cindy… but word has it that someone hacked the Center's main computer this afternoon with details on how to genetically engineer some form of bacteriophage. Funny thing is, the virus produced wouldn't affect any known pathogen. It's a bullet with no target. Needless to say, this information is too suspect for further investigation. _Anything_ might be coded in there," he continued, with evident distaste. "The author's a _hacker_, after all."

Cindy's lips thinned. No longer employing Delilah tactics, she said,

"Do me a favor, Tim. Take the message seriously, and convince the people above you to do the same. I can just about _guarantee_ that you haven't been attacked, here, and that the information is good. Just… um, I know the guy (he's a valued source) and that's _exactly_ his kind of arrogant communication method. Also… you might want to research how long it'll take to begin manufacturing this 'bullet'. I have a feeling we're going to need it, soon."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men-_

Alan wasn't much accustomed to cleaning. At home in California he could hardly be induced to straighten his room, despite the bad Feng Shui connotations of all that clutter. Out on the island, Kyrano did all the picking up.

Unsurprisingly, then, Alan polished furniture about as well as he'd have carved his father's profile into a block of sharp cheddar. Fortunately, he got a little help.

Headmaster Case placed Alan on the honor system, and then left Langley Center with Boye, promising to return at the end of free period to pick him up. In his wake, Langley grew utterly silent, her shadows gathering as thick as the folds of an old woman's shawl. The red exit sign above the far doors looked like a slow-burn warning, straight from the Twilight Zone. Alan shuddered. It wasn't so easy to polish wood when every creak, breath and flutter sounded like a convocation of ghosts. Kid ghosts, maybe; still searching for General Washington's army.

His neck prickled. From here, he could see the shivery light of the quad's street lamps, reflected into Langley from the troubled surface of a long puddle. A soft wind mewed around the building's corners, but couldn't follow the light inside.

When a nearby side door creaked open, Alan didn't just turn, he yelped aloud; convinced that his gruesome, horror-movie finish had come. It was only Fermat, though, with Sam Nakamura, Daniel Solomon and that kid from the dining hall, Chris Springfield. All of them held polishing supplies, and they'd even brought along peanut butter crackers and a pint-carton of cold milk to share with their miserable, unjustly-accused friend.

Alan gulped down the smuggled food, pretending to listen when Fermat began to nag.

"A- Alan, you've b- been… here for t- ten whole minutes, already, and… th- that's _all_ you've… gotten done?" The younger boy was clearly shocked, shoving his glasses back up the bridge of his nose just like Brains did.

"Um…" It took Alan a few seconds to get it back together; to reconnect with his own coolness after screaming like a woman and publicly devouring crackers and milk. "Yeah… that's all there is, because, dude, I believe in doing the job right."

He gestured with his rag, dripping fragrant linseed oil all over the stone floor.

"For real, it could take me _weeks _to finish this one bench." Beaming, he patted its perfectly straight back. "_Other_ people just polish. _I_ am an artiste."

"You're a bone-head," Sam muttered under his breath. Being the youngest boy present, and an underclassman, he wasn't allowed to directly criticize an older student.

His 12-year-old friend, Daniel, saw Alan as a rival for the attention of Miss Wilde. The pudgy pre-teen was unashamedly hostile, firing non-stop dirty looks from across the entry hall. He didn't polish very well, either; mostly because everything in his mother's Pittsburg home was made of plastic. alan scarcely noticed them, or Fermat, either.

Chris Springfield sauntered in with his hands in his pockets, the picture of I-don't-give-a-dang reserve. Pausing before Alan's half-finished bench, he made an elaborate show of gazing down his nose at the new boy's handiwork.

"My good man, it appears that you've missed a spot." He sounded exactly, _skeweringly_, like Case. "Are you not aware that physical toil edifies the mind, sir?"

Alan began to laugh, which only drove Chris to greater heights.

"Such levity is inappropriate in a student of glorious Wharton, and shall be dealt with immediately. 25,000 demerits, Master Tracy."

They were fast friends inside of thirty seconds, comparing notes on flaky moms (Mrs. Springfield was an alcoholic socialite who preferred liquid lunches, and had to be poured back into her limousine at the end of every excursion) powerful dads (Springfield Pharmaceutical was the mightiest bio-med corporation on the planet… and Chris was an only child) and skateboarding (they both intended to enter the X-games, someday).

"No, for serious, dude," Alan was saying, as he energetically scrubbed oil into the grain of a curly-maple chair. "We oughta form a, like, skateboard stunt team, with Tracy Aerospace providing all the high-tech mojo…"

"…And Springfield Pharmaceutical ponying up the aspirin and bandages," Chris finished, grinning at Alan.

He was an okay guy. Funny and interesting; with wavy, light brown hair, green eyes and a scattering of pale freckles, like raindrops on roadside dust. Something of a quiet rebel, he smiled a lot and snuck cigarettes whenever he could get away with it.

Prior to Alan's arrival, Chris had pretty much cornered the Wharton demerit market. Now, he looked forward to some spirited competition; an ally.

They went on talking as they polished.

"…Hey, at least you've got brothers! My dad's pinning everything on _me_, man. He really expects me to buy right into this rule-the-world corporate raiding crap, but he's starting me out at the bottom. My last two summer jobs were in the Stockholm warehouse and a grubby mailroom."

Alan groaned sympathetically, even though the idea sounded kind of… y'know… _interesting_. Not like flying Thunderbird 3, or anything, but still pretty neat in a 'Follow my footsteps' kind of way.

Not meaning to boast, but because he wanted to keep the conversation going, Alan said,

"Dude, that sucks. I live on an island and _my_ dad lets me fly some of his prototypes, to… y'know… shake them down, a little. My brothers are, let's see… a fighter pilot, an astronaut, a football player and a gold-medal swimmer. We hang out, like, _all_ the time; just flying and stuff."

Yeah, _right._ Over at the other side of the entrance hall, finishing up a squat trophy case, Fermat rolled his blue eyes. Chris was fooled, though. He sighed dejectedly, saying,

"Lucky! Aircraft beats Viagra, any day."

"For now," Alan chuckled. "Ask me again in, like, sixty years."

Shifting his attention from the trophy case to an old wooden gun rack, Sam attacked its sides, grunting,

"And… we're doing this, _why?"_

Fermat's head lowered, but he remained firm in defense of his misunderstood comrade.

"B- Because Alan's… my f- friend," he insisted.

"Could have fooled me," muttered Daniel. "He and Dorkfield look about ready to pick out curtains together. I _told_ you we should have stayed in Stanton, or headed further down the steam tunnels. Because, at least there…"

All at once the boy stopped talking, interrupted by a sudden, sharp clicking noise from the direction of the quad; Boye, standing on his hind legs to peer through one of the door's glass insets.

"The headmaster!" Sam hissed, at the same moment that Springfield muttered a hasty,

"Gotta go!" and shoved his polishing rag at Alan.

In less than a minute (using the old steam tunnel network so dear to Wharton students) Fermat, Daniel, Sam and Chris were gone. Headmaster Case reached Langley Center to find a smiling Alan Tracy surrounded by a great deal of mostly-polished furniture.

Case sighed. The boy had made an honest start, at least…

Feeling well-fed, confident and befriended, Alan cocked a blond eyebrow.

"Case, my man! Look around, and behold the stupefying efforts of the Alan Tracy Polishing Service. Motto: _We_ _adjust_ _your_ _dust!_"

Then again…

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, flying very high over the Pacific Ocean, under Shadowbot coverage-_

"Gordon!"

Virgil Tracy switched to autopilot and tore free of his seat restraints. His brother's condition had worsened steadily over the last hour, and now the young swimmer had collapsed to the deck like a snipped puppet, retching feebly.

"Gordon!" the pilot repeated, sprinting across the rumbling cockpit to his brother's side. "You okay, kiddo?"

Gordon had gone down just outside the head. He was pasty-clammy and cold to the touch, with an unfocused, thousand-mile stare.

"What's the matter? That 2-day drunk catching up to you?"

His brother did not reply, remaining limp and unresponsive when Virgil knelt down to pull him into a sitting position. His pulse and breathing were so weak that Virgil could hardly detect them; deeply worrisome signs. Maybe Gordon had come down with something, or maybe he was suffering the divine ancestor of all hangovers. One way or another, though, the deck was no place for a sick man.

Gordon was a semi-professional athlete; gene-doped to great muscle mass and raw power. He weighed at least two-hundred-thirty pounds, but Virgil lifted him from the deck without excessive strain, too focused on Gordon's deteriorating condition to notice a little weight. His brother convulsed violently, torn by muscle spasms that nearly knocked him out of Virgil's grasp.

Something was seriously wrong, the pilot decided suddenly. Keeping his tone light, he said,

"Okay, Champ… let's get you to a bunk and get some fluids inside you. Have you all better in two shakes, I promise."

For just an instant, as Virgil started for the rear crew cabin, Gordon roused, and seemed to hear him. The young aquanaut rallied just long enough to whisper a nonsensical reply before losing consciousness again, leaving Virgil confused and heavy-laden, with the quiet beginnings of a vise-like headache.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The International Moon Station, Peary Crater-_

Among Roger Thorpe's many Corps-fostered talents was breaking and entering. Or, in this case, _exiting._ The device he'd been working on was a sort of capacitor, meant to horde electrical energy from all available systems and then release it in one massive jolt. Massive enough, he hoped, to burn out the quarantine habitat's electronic lock.

He was in a hurry; never a good thing. Just a few minutes earlier, a pair of armed field medics had entered their prison to fetch away Pete McCord and John Tracy, and God only knew what these 'doctors' intended to do. Yeah, there were cameras all over the habitat, but just then, the Samoan Marine was well beyond stealth and caution.

Turning his broad back to the nearest camera, Roger attached his palm-sized capacitor to the hatch frame and turned it on. 10 seconds… 20… Then it _breeped_ like a cheap wrist watch, flashed once and produced a very large EM pulse. Nothing too fancy, just sudden, circuit-frying chaos.

The habitat's overhead lights flickered. He heard a buzzing noise, and thin, acrid smoke filled the air. Kim Cho had stood by with the fire extinguisher while Linda, close behind her, held their junior crewman. The Marine did not immediately call them forward, though. Too risky.

Waving aside the fumes, Roger put a shoulder to the hatch, and shoved. With its locking mechanism shorted out, the hatch should have opened easily, but nothing happened. Now, what?

As if guided, Janie reached for the puzzled Marine, saying,

"Unca Roger, I help. Janie help, Unca Roger."

And she tilted herself so far forward, pushing and squirming in her mother's arms, that Thorpe had no choice but to catch her.

She sloppily kissed his cheek before placing both chubby, spread-fingered hands upon the sealed hatch. Something rattled inside the locking mechanism, almost too quietly to hear. The small girl sat back, then, and patted his arm.

"Okay… good a go. You could push now, Unca Roger."

Thorpe shot a wondering glance at Cho and Dr. Bennett, but they were equally mystified, and wrapped in deeper worries.

"Yes, _ma'am," _he replied, placing his shoulder against the hatch once more. This time, it opened. How the hell...?

Roger Thorpe never looked a gift miracle in the mouth. Quickly, he kissed the baby's forehead, murmured, "Thanks, Peanut,"…and gave her back.

Linda received the child eagerly, hiding her in the folds of a pink blanket; as though lamb-and-duck-printed fabric could turn aside bullets and evil intent.

"Shhh…" Linda whispered, cuddling the baby's head against her shoulder. "Not a sound, Kara Jane."

At Roger's signal, she started forward. Cho brought up the rear, still carrying her fire extinguisher by way of armament. Together, they stepped cautiously through the hatch and out of their weeks-long prison. Roger led the way along a short corridor, at the end of which was yet another hatch, this one partly open.

Concern for his missing crewmates drove the Marine to hurry. Again, not good. The women had almost to run to keep up. Waving them back a little, Roger gathered himself, and then kicked the hatch wide. He leapt into the next compartment with fluid grace, landing in a low, agile crouch.

And then, smiling with relief, the Marine straightened.

Pete stood a short ways off with Commander Riley and the Moon Station's chief mining engineer. John was closer, slouching beside a beautiful young woman whom Roger thought he'd seen before. Blonde, hot and long-legged… and also stepping out of a WorldGov biohazard suit. One of their 'medics'? Perhaps he'd been too quick to relax. Thorpe began glancing around for possible weapons.

At his worried greeting,

"Hey! Everything good?" The others nodded. Didn't necessarily mean anything, though. Someone could have been standing just out of his sight, with a gun. It was then that he noticed the other field medic, laid flat out on the floor, twitching and groaning in a very reassuring manner. Roger looked back over at John, whose face radiated the usual calm and whose arms lay quietly folded across his chest. Evidently, the immediate situation had been handled.

Relaxing somewhat, the Marine handed Linda and Cho into the lab, setting off a whole new string of fireworks.

"All right, folks," Pete began, "Let's…"

He stopped before completing the command, because Dr. Bennett had spotted her husband in close proximity to a good-looking female who was currently in the act of removing her bulky outer garment.

Linda pushed Janie at the startled mission commander and stalked across the floor; heart clenched and purpose firm.

The blonde had by this time divested herself of that bright yellow hazard suit. Beneath it, she wore a body-skimming blue coverall. Turning to face Linda, she purred,

"Ah, yes… the other woman."

Her voice was gentle and breathy, with the subtle hint of an English accent. Wonderful; beauty _and_ sophistication. Could anything else go wrong?

"Correction," Linda replied firmly, shaking her head. "The _only_ woman."

Poor John looked rather stunned; frozen like a spot-lighted alligator. Linda spared him no sympathy, though. She couldn't afford to. Coming up to stand beside her tall husband, she swung an open hand down and slapped his posterior, saying,

"I can't fault your taste in men, Sweetie. He's definitely a nice piece of astronaut, and currently under contract. Sorry about that."

Pete choked, converting his merriment into almost-believable coughing. Roger grinned openly, one arm around his blushing fiancée.

The blonde swelled with outrage, staring at John with sudden, fierce intensity. Dr. Bennett's heart pounded, but she stood there as confidently as though her husband's response was a foregone conclusion.

John did something unusual, then. He smiled and took her hand, seeming genuinely amused by her actions.

"Contract, huh?"

Very tightly, Linda squeezed his hand.

"You'd better believe it, Sunshine. All rights reserved."

For quiet, complex reasons of his own, the notion seemed to please him. At any rate, he squeezed back.

Meanwhile, the blonde stared at John Tracy as though he'd risen up and stabbed her.

"Very well, then," she whispered. "We have business together, if nothing else, and much may flower from small beginnings. Your activities have been recorded, John dar… _John_. News of your little 'escape' shall certainly have reached an interested party on Earth, who shall then convince his more reactionary colleagues in the World Government to have the lot of you destroyed like diseased sheep. Perhaps now, my dear, you'd care to bargain?"


	13. 13: Guided Missile

Sorry to be so late; this bit was written in California and Arizona, but didn't get posted till Beaumont, Texas. First edit.

**13: Guided Missile**

_The vibrating steel walkway of a brick aqueduct, below the Diablo Mountains-_

Anyone else would have been overwhelmed by the noisy water tunnel; its close, rusty-smelling air, electronic sluice gates and flickering lantern glow. He did not see, hear or feel the world around him as an ordinary person would have, though. Too many changes had been made to his body and mind for that.

His sense organs and limbs had been replaced with electronic improvements, for one thing; a filtering layer of circuitry installed between flesh and consciousness, for another. His emotions were all but nonexistent, as were his interest in food and sex. About all that Stirling took pleasure in, anymore, was hunting; stalking and playing with his marks before a kill. He wasn't as fancy or cerebral as Genovese or Mr. Black. Just terribly, unstoppably, accurate.

Other assassins might rely on exhaustive casing and research to locate their marks, or pattern their victim's behavior. The cyborg tracked _his_ prey by following the response of nearby machines to their ID chips. After all, everybody had one, which constantly alerted and queried advertising kiosks, store security monitors and traffic sensors everywhere they went.

Go ahead, try to hide. Unless you blanked your chip with a jolt of electricity, (an illegal act) every machine that you passed would whisper your presence to the aether, and Stirling would hear.

The cyborg generally avoided public places, as he no longer looked quite human. Circuitry was clearly visible in the silver-pale irises of his narrow eyes, and his arms and legs were very slightly out of proportion to his mostly human torso (for greater mechanical advantage). Too, he was much heavier than a regular, six-foot man. He tended to set off alarms, on those few occasions that he forgot to access and silence an area's electronic surveillance bots. Better to wear a camouflage smart-suit, then, and keep to the sewers, aqueducts and maintenance tunnels, where vermin avoided him and machines obeyed.

That afternoon before setting out, Stirling recharged his organic bits with actual food and gave his mechanical parts a new lithium-ion battery pack and kinetic capacitor. Then, while still eating (peanut butter, one of the few flavors he still enjoyed) the cyborg consulted his 'shopping list'.

Inside his mind's eye was a screen. He could conjure it at will for access to personal data files, GPS and the internet. This time, all he needed was the latest list of marks. Not a long one, as it happened… although his employer had recently added another. To be hunted down and destroyed, in whichever order proved simplest, were the following personnel:

In D.C., Paul Jacob Crane, director NASA

In L.A., Brett Allen Carmichael, CEO ElectroSoft

Unknown location, Jeffery Connal Tracy, CEO Tracy Aerospace

In NYC, James Merton Springfield, CEO Springfield Pharmaceutical

Two kids at Wharton Private Academy for Young Men

…and, in Spain, a female politico, Indira Chatterjee. All in all, a hit list worth 1.5 million dollars, plus expenses.

Stirling washed down ten big spoonfuls of peanut butter with a bottle of vitamin-laced water. Then he cached the half-empty jar behind a loose brick in the tunnel wall, and poured out the remains of his water, adding a dribble to the torrent already headed for southern California. He crushed and tossed in the plastic bottle, too, reasoning that anyone who found the thing would assume it had slipped into the aqueduct through a cistern or storm drain. People were stupid that way, never asking the right questions until far too late to do them any good.

_Carmichael,_ he decided. ElectroSoft headquarters was nearest his current location, its chief executive a soft and easy mark. The kids were problematic and would cost extra. He disliked doing kids… but not badly enough to turn down a lucrative contract.

As for the others, Jeff Tracy lived on an island and had an odd tendency to vanish from the grid. Every so often, his chip seemed to flicker out of existence, making Tracy difficult to track. He'd have to be lured out of hiding, something Stirling excelled at. Kidnap and hostage situation, most likely.

Easier than Jeff Tracy would be Springfield and Crane. Their habits were well known and simple to anticipate. At this time of the year, for instance, James Springfield and his wife kept to their lightly guarded estate in the Hamptons; practically open season. Paul Crane was back in D.C., stumping for the space program. Again, a puffy mark; as easy to hit as one of those giant parade balloons.

Chatterjee, he'd save for last, the cyborg decided. Not that her assassination would prove difficult, but icing a WorldGov official would raise such a hue and cry that he'd need to take a little time off. Lie low for awhile.

Nodding to himself, Stirling accessed the internet, maneuvering through a fistful of public interfaces until he found ElectroSoft's busy website. And there, at a plush Los Angeles office, he located the ID chip corresponding to Brett Carmichael; mark number one. Amid coninual waves of surging background noise, the chip's subtle broadcast drew his attention like blood in the water would summon a bull shark. All set.

Locked on now, Stirling set off along the aqueduct's walkway; patient, untiring and pitiless. By nine PM the following day, if all went well, there would be one more corpse in the City of Angels.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, the cockpit-_

Virgil had gone forward, unable to help a sick brother and manage a giant aircraft at one and the same time. Worried and unwilling, but with no other choice, he left Gordon back in the rear crew cabin. The younger man was unconscious and convulsing, his breath having grown so labored that Virgil applied an air mask after strapping him down.

The pilot wasn't feeling well, either, his headache having worsened to blinding, sledgehammer intensity. Virgil stood it as long as he could. Then, about three-quarters of the way home, he called in to Island Base, reaching his deeply worried father. The image was blurry and distorted; his own vision's fault, rather than 2's reception.

"Dad… Gordon's in a bad way. He's really, um… pretty sick, I think." He was having trouble completing a thought, much less talking.

"_Virgil_, _listen_ _closely_," his father said. "_According_ _to_ _the_ _biomed_ _readings_, _you're_ _absolutely_ _unfit_ _to_ _fly_. _You've fallen sick, yourself. Do you understand me, Virgil?"_

_Sure… dad thought he couldn't handle 2._ Before the young man could reply, his father's on-screen image was joined by that of Gennine; wispy-frail and blonde as a sunbeam. Virgil forced himself to sit up some, and returned his step-mother's smile. Then,

"Yes, Sir… I hear you. Is there, um… we got an alternate landing site, anywhere in range?" It was all he could do to keep his hands on the steering yoke. Consulting the nav-computer was out of the question, at this point.

Jeff Tracy pressed a few buttons on his desktop console, coming back with,

_"San Marcos. Brains put in a remote landing strip after I bought the island, and it's only 350 miles from your current position, son."_

Placing one hand on her former husband/ fiancé's left shoulder, Gennine broke in anxiously,

_"350 miles is so far! Will you be able to reach it, Virgil?" _

"Hell…" he scoffed, and then corrected himself. "Sorry, ma'am. I mean… _Heck..._ our driveway's longer than that. No problem. Just… don't send anybody out after us, okay, dad? I dunno what we've got… but, um… I think it's pretty serious. I'm just gonna land, and try to sleep it off. Keep everyone back, until I call you."

Jeff made no promises, saying only,

"Your latest med-scan is in the system, Virgil. As soon as Brains reaches the Island, I'll have him take a look."

It couldn't be a coincidence, he thought. First the Ares crew had been quarantined, then John had sent information about a deliberately altered Martian bacterium… and now _this_.

Gennine rubbed his stiff shoulders, one of those small, gentle wife-acts that he hadn't realized how very much he'd missed. Almost without thinking about it, Jeff reached up and pressed one of her massaging hands.

Virgil Tracy had roughly 345 miles to cross to reach San Marcos, and his father talked him through every second of the flight. Landing, however, was another matter, entirely.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Madrid, Spain, a level-four lab in the Hospital Santa Maria-_

The CDC field team's job became very complicated, very quickly. They were under the lead of Dr. Shelton Pryce, a sharp-faced, retired Navy officer whose lack of humor was a by-word.

Not that Dr. Pryce was tempted to laugh at the situations in France and Spain, far from it; what had at first appeared to be a case of widespread food-poisoning had just exploded in his face.

Twenty-five young, healthy party kids had been stricken in Paris. Three were already dead, fourteen in critical shock. Worse, a French doctor had come down with similar symptoms after treating some of the sick kids (and taking few safety measures, but that was another issue). The woman was a saint; abstemious and calm. She _never_ went near the city's night clubs and bars.

…And yet, she'd contracted the mysterious illness.

In Madrid, the situation was even grimmer. Half of the European Union's athletic teams were down with the thing, the men's swim coach on life support. Having been in Paris recently, themselves, their route of contraction was clear; the solution, less so.

Flipping through a time-plotted victims list, Dr. Pryce came to a particular name, underlined and followed by a red question mark. He looked around as one of his staff bustled into the office, a sheaf of lab results in her bony hands.

Before she could say anything, Dr. Pryce peered upward through his wire-framed glasses, moved a centrifuge and snapped,

"Gordon Tracy. Where is he?"

Dr. James shook her head, loosening a few wisps of mousy hair from her habitual bun.

"Don't know, sir. Nobody does. He's just… vanished. No chip reading, even."

Pryce scowled.

"Does his coach know anything?"

"Kevin McMahon is unconscious," Dr. James sighed, "and unable to answer questions."

Dark eyes narrowing, Pryce hunted further.

"What about the rest of the team? Do _they_ have any clue to his whereabouts?"

Dr. James had just returned from the quarantine ward, where only one of the European athletes, Damien LeClaire, was lucid enough for questioning.

"Once again, sir, nobody knows. Apparently, this is _not_ Gordon Tracy's first disappearing act."

"Maybe not," Pryce responded, reaching across his partly-cleared desk for the lab reports, "but unless we find him, and soon, it's very likely to be his last."

Especially considering that the microbe involved was entirely unknown to medical science, and unresponsive to basic tests. Shouldn't have existed… yet, it somehow multiplied like mad in the human body, was highly contagious and produced a botulism-like toxin. Pryce glanced up again, skewering Dr. James with a direct, icy stare.

"Contact next of kin. Do whatever you have to, but _find_ him," he said.

…_Before anyone else gets sick._


	14. 14: The Grand Tour

**14: The Grand Tour**

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men-_

The upperclassmen's dorm was called Carnegie Hall. Nobody did much singing there, though. Constructed of weathered limestone, slate-roofed and sheathed in withered ivy, it looked very much like a crypt to Alan.

After his 'polishment', Case escorted the boy across the empty quad, up a flight of broad steps (their puddle-cupping centers hollowed by thousands of scuffing feet) through a set of wooden doors and into the dorm's entry hall. Okay… he'd been doing his best to play things off, like SoCal had more of this stuff, and ten times better… but Alan was reduced to staring like a tourist at all the weird junk in Carnegie Hall.

At the floor's center, cordoned off with marble pillars and velvet ropes, was what looked like a flat, mosaic sundial. Only, there was this heavy gold ball swinging grandly back and forth above it, hanging from a very long metal cable. Sensing his interest, the headmaster nodded toward the object and said,

"Foucault's Pendulum. It marks time by remaining perfectly stable while the Earth rotates beneath it. In the morning, when you've come down to break your fast, Master Tracy, the floor beneath the pendulum will have moved to the 7AM position."

Right now, that massive ball was hissing back and forth over tiles of dark blue and glittering silver, just above an intricate number '10'. The other side of the sundial thingy was inlaid with tiles of gold, orange and pink; representing day, he supposed. Alan just barely managed a smart-aleck shrug. But his mumbled…

"Sure,"

…lacked the normal eye-rolling boredom. Further inside was another beautifully complicated thing that turned out to be a model of the solar system. Case called it an 'orrery'. Like the pendulum, it was gilded, with spheres of rock crystal and precious stone representing the nine planets. Alan looked for Pluto (a shiny little ball of hematite on a canted golden ring) then Mars (polished red carnelian, about as big as his clenched fist). The thing moved constantly, the planets and moons sliding around their slender rings with sharp little clicks and whirrs. Earth was brightly enameled, with blue and green glass and gold wire marking its oceans and continents. Curious, he checked out the position of the Moon to see where John was right now (just out of sight beyond the eastern horizon, but fixing to rise, soon).

"Master Tracy, the orrery was imported from Florence, Italy, and has graced this hall for a hundred and twenty years. I am fully confident that it shall be present for further inspection come daybreak."

Alan shot Case a quick look, but the old guy really didn't seem to be making fun of him, or anything. Just, y'know, pat-you-on-the-head kind of amused. It was on the tip of his tongue to say _'who cares?' _But… the animated solar system was pretty cool. Like, if he wanted to launch in Thunderbird 3 and head for Venus, he'd have to go _that_ way. So, what he actually said was,

"No prob, dude. I've seen enough museum junk for one night, though. How 'bout leading me up to bed?"

If the headmaster was angry, he didn't show it. Instead, Case set off for a narrow stone staircase, saying,

"This way, then, young man. Your personal effects have already been deposited in room 220. For the remainder of the term, you shall have no roommate, as I deemed it unwise to disturb your fellow students in mid-semester…"

…and so on, and so forth. Alan hardly noticed what the man was droning on about, he was so tired.

His new home was on the second floor, south side, blue corridor. It was about the size of a small motel room, with two beds, two desks and bookshelves, a TV, a couch, a worktable and small refrigerator. There was a deep bay window as well, opening onto shifting bare branches, wet stone and foggy street lamps. The carpet was blue, as were the bed covers, and there was a black-and-red Wharton crest painted on the inside wall. Overhead, the ceiling fan sported two chain pulls, one ending in a colorful plastic bass, the other in a rubber figure of Charmander. Nice.

Over in Spain, Gordon spent loads of time at the EU athletic dorms; Alan wondered if this one was anything like his brother's.

"There are restroom and bathing facilities at either end of the hall," Case was saying. "By long tradition, those students residing on the even side of the corridor, such as yourself, use the outside wall facility. Those residing in odd-numbered rooms use the restroom nearest the quad."

Right away, Alan decided to scrap tradition and pee wherever he dang well pleased. Bet you there wasn't cable television here, even. Spotting his backpack and game system on one of the beds, Alan looked around for a second. Then,

"Hold up, Chase-dude," he snapped. "Where's my, like, luggage?"

The headmaster's hands were back in his pockets, and he was rocking again. _Man, _that was annoying!

"This is all the baggage that you arrived with, Master Tracy," he said.

Alan thought back, saw the Tracy Aerospace van speeding off with an agitated Brains at the wheel, and then slapped at his own blond head.

"Aw, _man!_ That butt-nugget drove off with my luggage!"

"Young man," said Case, folding well-upholstered arms across his chest, "as your behavioral demerits climb toward infinity, I shall be forced to assign a new task; mucking out the stables, perhaps."

Bad move. Alan kind of liked horses, actually. Not that you'd have gotten him to admit it, or anything.

"Fine. I'll upgrade him to 'butt-munch'. Either way, I'm, like, unclothed, dude. This is _way_ unacceptable. I'll have to go to class in, like, an artistically draped sheet, or something."

Case sighed.

"Forty-nine," he said, adding, "I shall arrange for some items of basic school apparel to be sent up from the campus store. Pray write down your size and color preferences. Doubtless, Professor Bremmerman can be induced to purchase whatever else you might need, in town. Good night, Master Tracy."

As the headmaster turned to leave, Alan's hastily scrawled wish list in hand, the boy blurted impulsively,

"Hey, Case-man; got an offer for you. Suppose… just supposing, say… that I can, y'know, go a whole week without getting a single behavior mark? Not _one_ demerit… would you erase all the rest of them? I could still feed the horses, or something, to make up for today."

Case paused to glance curiously at Alan, one eyebrow cocked.

"An intriguing offer, Master Tracy. Before I consider it further, however, I suggest that you practice phrasing your request with fewer 'likes' and 'you knows'. Fifty-_two._ Bon soir, young man."

Alan groaned inwardly, scowling at the headmaster's retreating back. He didn't have much time to be depressed, though, because almost as soon as Case cleared out, somebody knocked at the door.

Turned out to be Springfield, with his roommate, Cody Briggs. (Kind of a cool guy, but poor. He was here on scholarship, from Nobody's-ever-heard-of-it, Iowa. Red hair, blue eyes, long limbs and day-glow skin, where the freckles of doom weren't eating him alive.)

"Hey, Alan," Chris yawned, torn between friendship and alpha-student hauteur. "Wanted you to meet the guy who's been keeping my GPA off life support. Alan, Cody. Cody Briggs, Alan Tracy."

The other kid (he was about sixteen, Alan figured) stuck out a hand, all mid-western, like. Alan shook it, anyhow, being an ambassador of peace and goodwill from Planet California.

"S'up, man," he drawled.

"Nothing much," Cody beamed. "You?"

"I'm good… except for being trapped in Hicksville without my luggage."

Like the dork that he was, Chris laughed.

"Sucks to be you, Alan. Can't get good help these days, huh?"

"Bite me, Springfield," Alan half-growled, half-laughed. "Unless you got a, like, helpful suggestion_…"_

"Two," brown-haired Chris grinned at him, dropping the upperclassman routine. "I've got some new tee-shirts and pants you can have (my dad's secretary keeps me pretty well supplied). _And…_ some free advice. Each corridor has a night proctor posted at mid-hall. _Avoid them._ They'll write down everything you do, and record all requests. Go to the bathroom or ask for aspirin too many times, and you're gonna get a summons from the clinic, trust me."

Springfield paused then, a slightly uncomfortable look in his pale green eyes.

"What?" Alan prodded, warming to the hint of possible drama.

Chris glanced at his roommate.

"Tell him, Cody," he ordered.

The redhead nodded.

"Usually," he said (and his voice was kind of deep, for such a skinny guy), "new kids have to find this out on their own, because everyone thinks it's funny to see them get scared… but, uh… no fooling, the dorm is haunted. Every couple of months (nobody knows why) the second floor gets freezing cold. Then there's footsteps running down the hall like someone's in a real panic, and one or two of the rooms get their doors pounded on. The footsteps keep going, then there's this huge crashing noise, and it's over. Temperature goes back up, and everything. But what you need to remember is…"

Chris pushed Cody out of the way, no longer too cool to reveal vital information.

"It's bad luck if your door gets knocked on, but _way_ worse if you try to open it, okay? Just put your pillow over your head and wait for all the noise to die down. Seriously, man; a senior last year thought he'd be all tough and open the door if the runner knocked."

"So… what happened to him?" Alan inquired, trying to sound bland.

"Well, he laughed it off and stuff, but couldn't really describe what he saw. And later that year, over Christmas break, his folks' country estate burned to the ground, the au pair left, and his stepmom wound up in rehab, again."

"Fifty years ago," Cody cut in, "a sophomore hung himself from the bell tower after failing his final exams. _He_ opened the door, too."

"Yeah, _right_," Alan scoffed. "It's probably just the proctors, or a couple of seniors getting some sicko thrills."

Chris shrugged.

"Whatever. We warned you." Then, changing the subject, "What's your shirt size?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Los Angeles, California, late afternoon-_

The sun doused itself in the Pacific, painting the cloudless sky and restless ocean a hundred shades of orange, red and vivid gold. A breeze had sprung up. Fresh, clear and strong, it rustled the trailing leaves of the camphor trees, spreading their spicy scent.

Almost, you could forget how big Los Angeles was, how dirty and crowded and sprawling. People still sold everything they owned to get here, though, summoned by golden light, blue sea and buttery warmth. In swarms they came. Some to make fortunes. Others to barely hang on, still believing California's whispered promises.

This particular evening, just after the sun set, but before the stars finished pricking holes in Heaven, something happened. If you'd been there… maybe walking along the street, staring up at tall, mirrored buildings in the financial district, your camera in hand, your jaw slightly slack… you would not, at first, have heard anything peculiar. Then you'd have seen-heard-felt a sudden shower of window glass; hissing, stinging and crackling to the ground all around you. Confused, you'd jump aside, dropping the camera, just as something big, limp and dark slashed past to land with a great, wet, _THUD_ on a nearby car roof. Your mind would refuse to grasp the nature of all those dank bits exploding outward to pelt you, as the car collapsed and its alarm shrieked to life.

An instant later, standing there in street lights and blood spatter, you'd have recognized part of a twisted limb; an arm and wrist projecting weirdly from the battered remains of the car. You'd have thought, numbly (or gleefully; you know yourself best) _"It's a person… a dead guy."_

And then, depending on who you are, you'd have reached for your camera, or turned away to throw up. I don't know… maybe, as the screams and sirens and camera whirrs mounted, you would have craned your head to see a last hint of sunset gleaming warm against a shattered window, twenty stories up… and you'd have wondered. But the cyborg killer (brutal, efficient, and invisible when he wanted to be) was long gone.


	15. 15: Struck Down

**15: Struck Down**

_Thunderbird 2, flying to San Marcos Island-_

He flew through a Dali-esque setting of smeared edges and running colors, of consciousness barely maintained. His head didn't just hurt; it felt cracked open and leaking, like a carelessly dropped egg. Aspirin hardly dulled the headache and did nothing at all for those shooting pains in his belly. It was hard… very hard… to breathe. Not because his lungs were filling with fluid, but because his muscles had grown so terribly weak.

Thunderbird 2 mostly flew herself with a little incompetent guidance from Virgil, and remote assistance from Island Base. San Marcos had been selected as his destination, but landing the big cargolifter would require more than just computer input; landing Thunderbird 2 took the full attention of her pilot.

With dad talking him through each step, Virgil first spotted the small island, then lined up with its wavering, seaweed-y airstrip. The green runway lights came on, beckoning like an open door and out-flung arms. Somehow, he blocked out chills, pain and his worries for Gordon, focusing solely on that longed-for stretch of tarmac.

Land. All he had to do was safely land the aircraft… He took one sweaty hand off the yoke, groping for the controls to 2's impellers and steering rockets. Accidentally turned off the climate control system in the process, but at this point, it hardly mattered.

Squinting through the main view screen, he brought his Bird closer to the ground, terribly aware of the ocean's churning nearness, and the clawing reach of those trees and rocks. He landed by rote familiarity, keeping Thunderbird 2 between the twin rows of automatic lights, and adjusting his angle when prodded by dad.

The descent was anything but smooth, more juddering sleigh ride than elegant arc, but he made it. Thunderbird 2 swooped for the ground, making contact so roughly that Virgil was hurled into his safety straps and then back against the padded seat. The cargolifter bounced once, then slewed violently to the right. Her momentum still enormous, she plowed off the side of the runway and into a dense stand of Australian pine.

The next few seconds were a sick-making stew of groaning metal, titanic booms, sharp jerks, and a bubble-wrap concert of snapping tree trunks. She ground to a final, clattering halt with her blunt nose about five feet away from a craggy spire of hardened lava, while inside the blurry cockpit, alarms shrilled and warning lights flashed. Under normal circumstances, not a landing he'd have been proud of.

Virgil's hands shook as he unstrapped to rise.

_"Virgil? Son…? Answer me!"_ His father's voice, over the comm.

"Yeah… m' okay, dad. Just gonna… go back and check on… check on Gordon, now."

Marshalling his thoughts was like trying to pick loose the end of a roll of scotch tape while wearing oven mitts. He could see his father's worried face on the comm screen; hear him talking… but the words made no sense at all.

_"…on their way,"_ got through, just before the metal deck flew spinning up to meet him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, almost simultaneously-_

Scott Tracy and Dr. Hackenbacker rushed into the crowded office, fueled by alertness tabs and tension. Already there were Jeff Tracy (the head of International Rescue) Grandma, Gennine Rivers and TinTin Kyrano.

Nodding to the assembled ladies, the fighter pilot strode to his father's side, dropping off a white cat and snatching a handful of petit fours from a silver tray, on the way over.

"Dad," he began, "I've been in touch with John and Cindy. It looks like someone at WorldGov's been…"

"…Manipulating Martian bacteria to make themselves a bio-weapon," Jeff cut in, filling a coffee cup for his son. "I know."

He added four spoonfuls of raw sugar, stirred up the black, over-sweetened mess, and then began another cup for Brains, who looked as limp as an old shirt.

"I've already called a dozen WorldGov officials, threatening to terminate their preferential trade status with Tracy Aerospace if the astronauts aren't immediately released. All this, while fielding nastygrams from the Centers for Disease Control about Gordon. They want to know where he is, right the hell _now_."

Leaning over the desktop console, Jeff tapped a few keys in rapid succession, shrinking the first comm window. What he'd meant to do was reopen his link to the CDC and the US Army's medical research department. What actually came up was an FAO Schwartz checkout page. According to the eye-popping bottom line, he'd ordered over $73,000 worth of little girls' toys, décor and apparel. That window, too, shrank away, quickly hidden by the new grandfather.

Victoria Tracy remarked aloud that you could almost buy a house with what he'd spent on "stuffed bears and gee-gaws", but everyone else left him alone. A man could hope, couldn't he?

Clearing his throat, Jeff continued.

"I've encrypted and sent scores of messages to every major health agency in the world… hold on…"

In the first window, Thunderbird 2's onboard computer revealed that she was on final approach to San Marcos. Jeff interrupted his meeting with Scott and Brains to help guide Virgil to a safe landing, more or less.

Watching the Bird angle hard for the San Marcos jungle, Scott winced. Hackenbacker was more confident, certain of all the safety features he'd installed.

"D- Don't worry, Scott... Mr., ah… Mr. Tracy. 2 is designed to ab- absorb maximum punishment while, ah… while p- protecting her crew and passengers. Virgil and Gordon sh- should be, ah… be fine."

If that mysterious bug didn't finish them.

"Watch your altitude, son," Jeff was saying to a pale and groggy Virgil. "You're coming in steep. Level off some… that's it, you've got plenty of room… there's a 30 mile-an-hour east crosswind to compensate for… Steady…"

_"Okay, dad."_

Thunderbird 2's approach angle was awfully steep, but Virgil didn't have a wave-off and second attempt left in him. Not taking his eyes off the comm screen, Jeff said,

"Brains, I hate to ask this, considering the long flight you've just endured, but… would you please suit up in hazard gear, take TinTin and an emergency med station, and fly to San Marcos? My sons are in critical need of assistance."

He was bone-tired, but determined to move forward with all the tech and skill that International Rescue could muster. Brains gulped the last of his coffee, saying,

"Of c- course, Mr. Tracy. I'll see what I can, ah… can do for the boys, and t- try to determine if their, ah… their current affliction h- has anything to do w- with the WorldGov plot." Extending an arm, he added, "TinTin?"

The dark-eyed girl was as graceful and curvaceous as the stone goddesses carved on the walls of a Hindu temple. She was also very brave… though shadowed and quiet, lately.

"I will certainly help, Messieur, in whatever capacity I am able to."

Engineering and basic first aid skills were not especially valuable, under the circumstances, but TinTin meant to do her bit, regardless.

"Good," Jeff replied, once he'd raised Virgil again. "Take Thunderbird 1, and for God's sake, _hurry._ I'd go myself, but Scott and I will be launching Thunderbird 3 within the hour. We've got a care package to intercept and some astronauts to rescue."

And then, to his barely-conscious son,

"Hang on, Virgil. Brains and TinTin are on their way. They'll have you two doctored up in no time. Genn… mother… I'll leave you minding the store. Kyrano can help out, at need. Just keep the encryption protocols up and answer the comm."

He kissed his elderly mother's cheek, and then embraced Gennine, who gave him a fierce answering hug. Brains, Scott and TinTin got handshakes, and an exhortation.

"You have your assignments, ladies and gentlemen. It's a go."

Tracy Island boiled with ferocious activity for the next forty minutes or so, after which Thunderbirds 1 and 3 launched almost together, one peeling sharply off to the northwest, the other vaulting upward on three plumes of bright flame. Before the lower pool slid back into place, before the roundhouse closed and the sonic booms had faded, help was on its way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Later; New York City, en route to a local affiliate-_

Cindy Taylor had managed to reach Scott's cell phone, but not the man himself, for he was in mid-launch and unavailable. Sometimes, her husband-to-be was more difficult to get in touch with than a billionaire oil magnate. And all that his worthless wrist comm would do was take a message. There was always plan B, though.

"John," she began, when her icy-pale near-brother-in-law picked up.

_"What __now?__"_ he responded, less than politely. _"Can't decide between the salmon and chicken?"_

"I hate you. And, _no,_ you're the last person on Earth I'd consult for my reception menu. We'd end up serving popcorn, toast and Vienna sausages."

_"You forgot the orange kool-aid,"_ he said. Then, _"Seriously; access the proper file, please, and explain what's on your mind. And, Taylor…? __Summarize__."_

"Absolutely, although I've always found _'you stink'_ to be rather pithy, myself."

_"So print my picture out and paste it on your favorite dartboard. Meanwhile… the __point,__ Taylor?"_

Feeling oddly better, now, Cindy said,

"I've passed your message to a couple of friends in middle places. Hopefully, the information will be relayed upward. I may not have Katie Cedric's pull, but after that sewage-dumping scandal I uncovered, the CDC _does_ pay attention."

John seemed underwhelmed, glancing away from the screen as though deeply preoccupied.

_"Thanks. Is that it?"_

A bit needled, Cindy said,

"No. There's also been a localized outbreak of something like food poisoning in Europe; specifically Paris and the EU athletic dorms. Could be nothing, but the timing sure feels funny."

John's face changed subtly, a few muscles shifting place in his finely chiseled jaw and forehead.

_"Okay… listen to me, Taylor. Things are getting complex over here, so I may be out of touch for awhile, but I'd strongly advise you to leave the city."_

She stared at the screen as though the young astronaut had lost his mind.

"You're kidding, right? I've got to go public with all this, John! And even if I _could_ broadcast remotely, where would I head? There's no…"

_"We have a gated compound in the Hamptons you can go to. I'll arrange a helijet to pick you up from the WNN station in Queens within the hour. Just lock yourself in and stay put, got it? The staff will already have left."_

"You're serious…?" Cindy asked him, blaring adverts and travel frustrations all at once forgotten. "What about my father? Bart's in San Francisco, still."

_"I'll have him picked up. Damage control is one of my specialties; all in a day's work… but I prefer not to have personal acquaintances turn up among the losses. Get the hell out of Dodge, Taylor, and tell your friends to do the same… assuming you __have__ any."_

"Yeah. Love you, too, jackass. Stay safe."

Making brief eye-contact, John smiled a little.

_"You do the same. See you at the wedding."_

…He hoped. Switching off his wrist comm, John Tracy turned to face Pete, Linda, Roger, Cho, Commander Riley, Lacey Cartwright and a very impatient Penelope.

"We need to hurry," he said.

11


	16. 16: Operations

Thanks for the reviews, Sam, ED and Tikatu. Edited.

**16: Operations**

_At the International Moon Station's deserted environmental control center, seeking egress while evading detection-_

Words that sounded funny, and which he sometimes whispered to himself or repeated silently (for the effect they had on his insides) included: _tweezers, Sizemore_ and _zwieback._ But not out loud. Other people found that kind of behavior strange, though it was certainly calming, like counting things exponentially, or repeating any statement that began with _'Let us consider_…' and ended in the words _'Gaussian primes'._

Penny's threat still being fresh in his mind, John used his rescued laptop and a control console to access a massive botnet and hack the Moon Station's main system. Several things, he did.

A) Scrambled output signals from all cameras and video monitors, so that a myriad unlabeled images strobe-winked and jumped around, or cut off entirely for long, random stretches. Disabled internal comm and alarms, too; preventing organized response from those scattered 'medical' personnl.

B) Fired off a string of memorized exploits that would partialy hose the routers between Moon Station and Earth, piggy-backing the malware to the next 2X messages that left IMS. X being defined as the exact number of times, plus 1, that someone tried to access a computer at WorldGov, or in D.C.

…Unless the packet was headed for NASA or International Rescue.

C) Installed a new back door for himself in the Moon Station's newly softened underbelly. No sense wasting a good opportunity, though he didn't say as much to Philip Riley.

Then he contacted operatives in New York City and San Francisco about Cindy Taylor and her father, Bart. Pick-up being arranged and a general warning issued, John was free to message IR and then attend to all the confusing, demanding others who surrounded him. Prior to that, you could have stood at his left shoulder and all but shouted his name; didn't matter. He wouldn't emerge from the work trance until good and ready to do so.

"Okay," he finally said aloud, to most of the others. (Roger Thorpe had his back turned, visually scanning the room and doors. He held one of the captured and charged stun guns. Pete had the other.) "We're covered for awhile, if they didn't send that recording before I got a chance to screw with the lines."

"Good enough," Pete responded, smiling briefly. Commander Riley didn't look as pleased… but, hey; tough shit, huh? You opened the gates very much at your own risk.

John rose from the work station, cigarette-afterward satisfied. The plan called for them to split up, next; Pete, Linda, Cho, Roger and Janie to the original Moon Station, Riley and his chief engineer to auxiliary command, John and Penelope to a distant utility hangar.

He'd have set forth at once, but other people always need goodbyes; he knew that. First, his wife, whom he drew slightly aside.

"I've set things up, including extraction four hours from now by International Rescue. As long as you stick to the script, everything should…"

"That's not her, is it?" Linda asked him all at once, nodding toward Penny. "The girl you're still in love with?"

_What the hell…?_

As John tried to formulate a coherent response, the brown-eyed doctor went on,

"Obviously, she's still attached to _you,_ Sunshine, but I get the impression that you've slammed some kind of mental door on her… like the one that's sort of cracked for me and Janie. Barbie, over there, has to be a rebound-relationship; someone you used, to try to get over your first… whom I take it I haven't yet been introduced to."

_Um…_ hard, crashing, ice-field full of stuff, here…

"Like I was saying, Doctor, stick with the plan. Get a survival suit on as quickly as possible, stay low, and head for the first Moon Station cavern. Thunderbird 3 will be along in a few hours. You should be relatively safe, in the meantime."

His little, short, small and (he had a sudden insight) _suspicious_ wife, inhaled deeply.

"All right… you don't want to talk about her, right now," she said to him, her upturned face pale in the station's cold LED panels. "But, John, sooner or later, we need to have this discussion. I want to know who she is, whether or not you still see her, and how much of a threat I'm facing, here."

_Threat level? Emminently dealable with._ He began holding up fingers to enumerate the possibilities, relieved at the change in topic.

"Okay. First, capture and 'elimination'. Second, a sudden burst of toxicity from our hitch-hiking microbes. Third, inability to reach your extraction site. Fourth… but less likely… a station-wide decompression event."

Again, though, he'd apparently misunderstood his wife. She shook her head, tip-toed up and pulled him down for a kiss, muttering,

"Never mind,"

…and then she went off to get the baby. Janie was easier. All his daughter did was hug him, setting up a warm pulse at the back of his left wrist that John once more rejected.

"Stay with the crew," he said quietly to daughter and creation, both. "They need you more than I do, at this point."

Junior's round blue eyes grew watery, and her desperate, baby-moist grip tightened.

"Daddy goin' wif Unca Pete?" she suggested, evidently trying to arrange escort.

"No. With…" _'Barbie'_ he almost said, but caught himself in time. "...With Ms. Coates. I've worked with her in the past. Don't worry."

But neither Janie nor Five seemed convinced; the small girl hugging him harder, Five leaving a faint, stubborn sparkle of presence in his ID chip. John pressed one side of his unshaven face against her emotion-blotched little cheek, appreciating her (their) concern. Then,

"Take care," he said, handing the child back to its mother. Because Linda was looking at him, he kissed her forehead. And then, because she persisted in looking, he kissed her mouth, as well. Seemed to settle matters, closure-wise, though the baby tried to hold onto his blue coverall sleeve. Doctor Bennett managed to tug the child loose, after a moment, and then drifted over to stand beside Kim Cho, looking grim.

The rest were handled with handshakes and bracing good wishes except for Pete McCord, who walked partway across the room with him.

"Stay out of trouble," the mission commander ordered, handing him the weapon, "and watch your back around 'Mata Hari', over there. Beautiful women are bad news, anyway. Beautiful, _smart_ women are goddam dangerous."

At John Tracy's silent _'input accepted'_ nod, Pete continued,

"Anyhow, here's to reaching Earth, again, all of us. I just want to sit down at some miserable, Podunk watering hole… you, me and the rest of the family. Hell, Gene, even… and have a good laugh about all this. Even if we do end up being 'put to sleep for the good of all mankind'." (He made that double quote motions with the fingers of both hands, then.) "I'd like to see Earth, again."

John braved eye-contact, saying matter-of-factly,

"I'd just rather not die."

Confusingly, Pete grinned and clapped a hand to John's near arm.

"Damn," he chuckled, inexplicably. "I should've said yes."

John's uncertainty must have been evident, because the commander went on,

"You probably don't remember this, Tracy, but back in Kansas, when you were… I dunno… all of three, maybe… you asked if I wanted a kid, meaning _you._ Kinda wish now I'd said 'yes'."

John gave the floor a warm smile, and resisted the impulse to clean and organize the entire environmental control room. Other people didn't like that sort of thing… but the handshake and accompanying upper arm-clasp were filed away along with Pete's words, in the same small box that held memories of the night he'd asked that disappointing question.

"Time to go," McCord announced; once more all business. "Get your ass pointed in the right direction, Tracy. We'll rendezvous back on Earth."

"Okay," John nodded, filled with something quiet, but very big. "At the Tin Star, in Burlington, Wyoming. The food's so bad you'll want to rush out and lick the parking lot, afterward, to get the taste out of your mouth, but the drinks are double-strength."

…Always a nice plus.

They parted company, then; John collecting Penelope and setting off with her down a long, low, faintly vibrating stone corridor.


	17. 17: A Costly Business

**17: A Costly Business**

_IMS, moving quietly along a narrow, gunpowder-y smelling passageway-_

She might have stood it, had he been utterly indifferent, but John scanned and opened doors for her, still. He handed her over grates and hatch sills; small, courtly gestures ingrained in them both by long association, and suddenly (to her at least) quite painful.

He also retained their weapon, an electrical stun gun she'd worn in her WorldGov 'Penelope Coates' persona. Penny had no doubt whatever that John Tracy would step into the path of a bullet or energy burst for her… but that was entirely beside the point.

Halting in mid-corridor, Penelope reached a nervous hand up to smooth at a strand of loose golden hair. She then turned to face John, who had likewise paused.

"Am I not to be allowed possession of my own weapon, even?" she asked him, her voice low, but admirably controlled.

John (once _her_ John) cocked a blond eyebrow.

"I assumed you had another," he replied quietly. "You always pack double, and I was pretty well strip-searched on arrival."

This small, humorous admission undid her last bit of composure. She began to shake.

"Do I mean nothing?" Penelope demanded in a hot, tear-jagged whisper. "Is all of this no more to you than switching ponies in mid-match?"

John's face changed, subtly, but he would not give her the satisfaction of losing control. Instead, leaning forward slightly, he replied,

"The last thing you said, before I left orbit, was _'You can bloody well rot up there'._ Maybe I need female-translation subtitles, but that sounded a lot like '_piss_ _off'_, to me."

He was intense, calm and terribly desirable, just then; with a slight growth of beard and longish pale hair falling into his face. Onward...

"I was overwrought, Darling," she said softly, once again touching his arm. "I had thought, when that wretched space station disintegrated, that you would be content to remain on Earth. We had several grand weeks together, as I'm certain you recall… and then you blithely announced your intent to leave entirely, for three _years. _How else was I expected to respond?"

"So long? Have a nice trip?" John suggested, "I'll try to keep my bed-hopping to a minimum while you're gone?"

Stung, Lady Penelope lifted her head.

"I see… You are pleased to moralize, whereas I have _never_ raised the slightest complaint over your temporary affaires du coeur. Will this common-law trollop of yours be as open minded, Darling?"

John said nothing at all, descending into that frigid, impenetrable silence that she knew so well and detested so fiercely.

"By all means," Penny added savagely, "play house, if it pleases you to do so, dear, but mark me: _it shall not last. _Once this adventuress you've acquired unearths some of your less-admirable traits, she'll heave you out upon the kerb, child or no child."

And she waited, ready to fight, hoping for a reaction of some… of _any…_ sort. But again, all he did was stand there, arms folded, gazing past her trembling left shoulder. She might as well have attempted to anger the walls and floor. Several heartbeats thudded past before Penelope broke the silence.

"John… I should very much like to know what you are feeling, at this moment."

He looked at her, then; a swift flash of blue-amethyst behind curtaining blond hair.

"Nothing," he said. "Not a damn thing, except that we need to get moving, and all you want to do is fight. Don't suppose there's any way we could save round three for tomorrow?"

Penelope composed herself with a shaky breath, and then nodded.

"Of course, dear… All that I ask is that we remain business partners, and that, once she has taken her offspring and vanished, you consider resuming our previous relationship. I should be willing to defy convention and wed you, even… if you _insisted_ upon it."

That drew something like a smile out of him. An emotional response, and therefore, welcome.

"Did you just ask me to marry you?" he said, once again starting forward. Penny trailed along; close enough that her arm and shoulder occasionally brushed him.

"So it would seem. Do with the proposal as you will, my utterly dear ingrate."

John halted by an airlock, at a long rack NASA hard-suits. Looking them over, he made up his mind and reached for one, handing Penny the stun weapon as he did so.

"Can't do a thing," he replied conversationally, beginning to slip out of his blue coverall. "I'm under contract, remember? She _might_ stay. I could change, and if I know ahead of time what's on her mind, I can rehearse what to say. I just… females surprise me, sometimes. Hold this for me, and watch the corridor."

Penelope accepted his neatly folded outer clothing, and did a fair job of keeping her mind on business, despite all of those swift, smuggled glimpses. She had to help John into the mechanized torso and limb armor, once he'd donned the suit's tight liner.

"Force of habit, terribly sorry," she whispered, having kissed him lightly whilst handing over the helmet. She _wasn't_ though; not a bit.

John hung the helmet from its belt hook and cycled up the suit's power setting, giving himself nearly twice human strength. There was Earth gravity to face, after all. He looked over then, and his expression was indecipherable as he said,

"You want to work together… okay. But that's all it can be, Penny. I've got a wife and a baby, and I want to keep them. I _have_ to find a way to make this turn out all right; solve the problem and get my family home. but if, um… If it had been _you,_ and we had a kid together… I would have done the same thing."

Quite obviously, John had no idea how deeply those words hurt. Managed to mask it, she did, saying only,

"Yes, well… let's whisk you off to my employer, then. The Red Path's secret master slumbers before us on Earth, all unawares."

A genius he might be, and terrible when provoked, but he was also quite naïve, her darling. Quite readily manipulated, by the proper individual.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere, headed through a labyrinth of right-angled corridors-_

They proceeded in quick bursts, Pete leading the way, Roger bringing up the rear; all of them tired from a longer walk than they'd endured in years. Linda fought the urge to sneeze at the Moon Station's mixture of human smells, machine oil and fried rock. With one hand, she kept Janie's bubble-gum pink blanket over the baby's head. Cho took hold of the other, providing silent, friendly support.

Strange… she'd begun this mission with four comrades. Now she had an impetuous, powerful younger brother, an irascible uncle, a handsome husband, a child and a dear sister. How had she gotten along, before? How would she, once the mission ended, and they had to part?

Thinking these things, Linda nearly collided with the mission commander, who'd halted at an intersection, one hand upraised.

"Excuse me," she started to whisper, but Pete turned very suddenly, signing,

_'Someone come. Scatter. Fast-quiet.'_

They did so at once, and without question, melting into various side passages and alcoves. Creeping along close to the rocky wall, Linda searched for a place to hide. Her heart pounded, jerking irregularly within her pleural cavity. The baby… so good, so quiet… tightened her grip, but didn't so much as whimper.

Unfortunately, Dr. Bennett had made a mistake. Reacting blindly, she'd chosen a small, barren maintenance bay rather than a corridor or room. Now she was relatively exposed, but didn't dare risk moving again, unless…

Spying a tool locker, Linda jerked it open. It was far too small to hide _her_, but Janie might crouch within. Quickly, she pushed a few spanners aside and placed her little girl on the locker's lowest shelf.

"Shh- shh- shhhh…" she whispered urgently, kissing the baby's face many times. "Be very quiet, Kara Jane. Be very still. Mommy's going to close the door now, but she's coming back… or Daddy will, or Auntie Cho. Understand, Angel-girl? Be good for me, and play the hiding game, okay?"

Janie's thumb docked at her mouth. She stared at her mother's face as though about to cry, but said nothing.

Another fierce kiss, then Linda padded her child with the pink blanket, handed in a zip-lok bag of cereal, and somehow managed to shut that door. _Away._ She had to move off, drawing anyone fixed on her away from the locker, and her baby.

Linda stumbled off. Inside her, all was clawing, terrified nerves and a long, silent scream of _'JOHN!'_ Outside, she stayed low, surging away from the maintenance bay and down a long corridor. Her breathing, heartbeat and footsteps sounded like a freight train to Dr. Bennett, but at least she was leading any searchers away from…

"STOP! That's far enough, Ma'am."

The voice was tense and masculine, the yellow-suited figure it came from tall and well-armed. He sported another of those mirror-masked head pieces, and carried a pistol rather than a stunner. The stakes had been raised somewhat, it seemed. Linda halted, going as cold and still as though already laid out on a marble slab.

The man started forward. His nameplate read 'Blake', and he was reaching for the plastic cuffs which dangled from a loop on his biohazard suit.

"Got one!" he called aloud, just before he was seized from behind and smashed repeatedly into a wall, then dumped at the doctor's feet.

Linda had to press both hands against her mouth to stifle a rising shriek… but Roger Thorpe was there, grinning as ferociously as a South Seas pirate.

"Saw a light panel flashing Morse code at me, I swear to God…" he explained, pausing long enough to steal the fallen man's gun, bind him with his own cuffs, and then embrace Linda. "'Assistance_ required. Help mommy',_ it said, and I've never been one to ignore a kick in the ass like that one. Good thing, huh?"

Linda nodded, clouding up despite her own best efforts at self control.

"Yeah," she agreed faintly. "Good thing."

Roger handed over his spare weapon, the electric stunner.

"Keep hold of this, and don't be afraid to fire if the need arises. Now, let's go get Peanut and the others, and make rendezvous. It's gonna be okay, doctor. One way or another, the US Marine Corps always comes through."

Blake's comm unit buzzed fitfully, until Roger found and destroyed it. Then he and Doctor Bennett set off down the corridor at a rapid lope. That damned supply locker was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen, containing, as it did, her little one.

"You's okay, mommy?" Junior asked, once Linda flung open the door and retrieved her. "Yellow man not hurted you?"

Weirdly, Doctor Bennett could hear what sounded like her own voice combined with trotting, rustling noises that receded down the hall. A decoy.

Roger was tense and erect as a lightning rod, gun in hand, while Linda kissed and gathered close her miraculous baby daughter.

"Mommy's okay, precious. Do… you know where Uncle Pete and Auntie Cho are?"

The golden-haired girl left off nuzzling her mother to nod seriously. Pointing leftward, she said,

"Uh-huh. Ober dere, mommy. Go, now?"

Linda glanced up at Roger Thorpe, who gave her a quick nod.

"Works for me," he told the doctor. "She's two for two, so far."

Then,

"Point the way and keep everyone else distracted, Peanut. We've got a bus to catch."

Janie was confused, until the sudden picture of a yellow ship appeared in her head, rolling like on TV or the movies. Mommy was in the ship with Janie on her lap, and they were going to Earth. Janie was scared of Earth.

"No bus, Unca Roger. We catch 'Durance, okay? We go 'Durance, again."

Her uncle's big brown hand tousled Janie's hair, but he didn't smile, and mommy said,

"Shhh, Kara Jane!"

_'Kara Jane'_ meant _'pay attention!'_ _'Janie'_ was for good and fun and time to play. _'Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy'_ meant Janie poopied in the wrong place again, or ate the fish food, or tried to see inside, when daddy and mommy were in their sleep locker.

Janie scrunched her face up to keep any more noise from coming out, but she _still_ was scareded of stupid, bad grabity-Earth, and she wanted her daddy. Inside herself, she asked,

_'Get daddy, please? Please bring him? I miss daddy.'_

Only because she was a big girl, she didn't cry, and because mommy told her to hush, while someone inside said, _'working…' _A little bit after that, Unca Pete and Auntie were back, and Janie felt better.

They walked more. A long ways more, and sometimes, Janie told them,

"No, don't go _that_ way," because there was mens in there.

Once, the inside voice said to touch the wall again, and Janie did. That time, all the doors closed _all_ up behind them. Unca Pete was happy. He said Janie was 'promoted'. He said… Unca Pete was _funny…_ he said mommy and daddy could have…

"…as many damn kids as you want, if they're all this useful."

Useful and promoted. Maybe she could make orders now, like Unca Pete, and tell everybody '_back_ _to_ _the_ _ship!' _Back home.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere, in other news-_

A cot-side brain monitor flatlined at Santa Maria Hospital in Madrid, Spain. Kevin James McMahon was declared legally dead at 3:10 PM, Saturday, November 3rd.


	18. 18: Setting Up the Board

Edited.

**18: Setting Up the Board**

_San Marcos-_

Quick and slender as a needle, the silver Bird flashed from dense cloud to bright sunshine and back again; one moment buffeted by swirling grey mist and savage updrafts, the next becalmed. Inside, Doctor Hackenbacker piloted International Rescue's vanguard craft, frowning in concentration as he was forced to put his theoretical knowledge to practical use.

TinTin Kyrano sat close beside him, willing the two faint sparks she'd sensed ahead to continue glowing. So weak, they seemed.

"B- Brace, TinTin," Brains advised her, as he began final approach. "We, ah… we sh- should be safe enough, but it is, ah… is always w- wise to prepare for the w- worst."

Indeed, she required no instruction on this matter, for life had taught her the very same lesson from babyhood. Nevertheless, the dark-haired girl nodded, not wishing to speak over Thunderbird 1's screaming engines, nor sever her fragile link to Virgil and Gordon.

_'Courage, mes amis,'_ she thought/sent. _'Nous venant. All will be well, I promise you.' _

She could already see the small island where Thunderbird 2 had twice been forced to crash land. TinTin had been attacked by the Hood, there, and for her the place held only the bleakest associations.

"Over th- the, ah… the danger zone, and initiating d- descent," Brains announced to comm and passenger, both. Not that TinTin was actually listening.

Of certainty, he was not here _now,_ her pitiless uncle; John Tracy had assured her that the monster was long since laid in his grave… and yet, she feared.

TinTin's short nails bit eight little half-moons through the soft flesh of her palms as San Marcos rushed up to meet her. Dark rocks… forest… water… and then the new runway, with a wide, slashing scar of broken landing lights and tumbled, snapped-off trees cutting westward. Thunderbird 2 had landed very hard, indeed. Thunderbird 1 did somewhat better, but again, TinTin was too worried to care.

_His_ voice had struck at her here. In this place, his mind had battered and captured hers. The ragged fingernails worked further, gouging dark semicircles of blood.

Very hard, she'd attempted to fight him, and yet failed to defend herself, or anyone else. The memory filled TinTin with frantic, unreasoning fear; a terrible dread that the same thing might happen again. For distraction, she clung fast to the twin sparks of life she'd sensed earlier, nursing them, willing them not to falter as Thunderbird 1 glided down on half-impellers.

Doctor Hackenbacker required speed, not subtlety, and so he landed Thunderbird 1 quite roughly. TinTin was up and unstrapped before the engines quieted. Her ears were ringing and her heart had become a rapid metronome as she betook herself across the small cockpit to pull an equipment case from its storage locker.

Brains, meanwhile, was speaking into the comm, informing Island Base and Monsieur Tracy that he'd reached the danger zone. The call took perhaps 3 minutes, for that he clicked the mic, and did not await response.

They were already clothed in biohazard survival suits, she and _il_ _prof_, and required only the addition of helmets to render themselves proof against airborne illness.

"TinTin, if you'll, ah… you'll g- get our helmets, I'll ready the emergency med s- station."

A complex process, as the medical station, like mobile control, lay in Thunderbird 1's cramped cargo hold. TinTin nodded, smothering impatience long enough to dash after their helmets. In less than five minutes, they'd deplaned, striding forth into bright, direct sunlight.

Thunderbird 2's twin tail assembly projected above a jumble of felled trees, about a kilometer off. Reaching her would mean a strenuous jungle hike. Fortunately, the trio of grav carts which Doctor Hackenbacker had unloaded meant that they would not have to drag or carry their gear; only themselves.

"We must hurry," TinTin murmured over her helmet comm. The twin points of light in her mind were growing dimmer with every fumbled moment.

"Th- That's, ah… that's the general idea, T- TinTin," Brains responded, frowning at her through his protective faceplate. He was deeply exhausted, she sensed.

"Of course, Monsieur. I did not mean to imply otherwise."

He grunted something conciliatory, and they set off together, descending from ramp to wounded runway before entering the jungle. Rather than follow 2's debris trail, they paralleled her long, destructive skid mark. Less work, that way.

Overhead, birds circled restlessly, screeching alarm calls to all who'd listen. Small mammals were disturbed, as well; shaking the canopy as they broke for new territory. A very large portion of TinTin was just as unsettled and jumpy. To her, the place was badly haunted.

She broke into a trot as Thunderbird 2's enormous flank came into view between thick trunks of tropical pine. A tethered grav cart bobbed along behind her, carrying part of Brains' medical gear.

Drawing closer (Doctor Hackenbacker had fallen behind somewhat; being, perhaps, not of the most athletic) she received her first challenge. One of 2's swarming maintenance bots skittered along the scarred hull to intercept TinTin's advance. She halted immediately, allowing the little mechanism time to read her ID chip and wrist comm. She and the surrounding fifty feet were thermal-scanned to determine that, not only was she TinTin Kyrano, but that no one was standing behind her with a gun. At length, the maintenance bot was satisfied. It flashed a brief, coded entry signal, and then returned to work.

"We are accepted," she told Doctor Hackenbacker, when he panted up an instant later. Struggling for breath in the close, fan-wafted air of his helmet, all the man did was nod. An unfortunate choice, as the gesture knocked his glasses halfway down the bridge of his long nose, and he had no way to reach in and adjust them. All he could do was to wrinkle his nose, tip his head backward and contort his face in an effort to reposition the skewed eyewear.

Said TinTin sympathetically, as 2's forward boarding ramp unfolded,

"Perhaps the elastic strap next time, monsieur, to better secure your glasses?"

Brains nodded again, which only made matters worse. Exasperated, he snapped,

"TinTin, no, ah… no offense, b- but I would appreciate it if you'd s- speak no more than ab- absolutely necessary until w- we've carried out the, ah… the mission."

Chastened, the girl replied,

"Oui, monsieur. Pray forgive my distracting chatter." Thus far, she was not cutting a very grand figure as the new generation's premier rescuer.

The boarding ramp had by now made contact with a tangled mass of upturned roots and shattered trunks. It could unfold no further, merely grinding against the blockage with curls of fragrant wood and whining motors. To save power and forestall any possibility of fire, Hackenbacker remotely shut off the straining mechanism. The rescuers then had to clamber onto Thunderbird 2's half-extended ramp from a pile of fallen branches, pulling their grav carts behind them.

Once again, TinTin darted forward, leaving Brains to follow as best he could. Up the ringing, leaf-littered ramp, through a wide hatch, and into the ship, she went, heading straight for the cockpit.

Virgil was there, having collapsed while trying to make his way to the rear crew cabin. He was pale, clammy and shivering, she noticed, with unfocused brown eyes and a pinched, papery look to him. His breathing and pulse were dreadfully weak. Whichever microorganism had struck him down was growing speedier, as it went.

Kneeling down, TinTin touched his face.

"I am here, Virgil," she whispered. She'd thought herself in love with him, once.

Here and now, TinTin did her best to gather the young man close, meanwhile feeling about the grav cart's stacked and netted supplies for a programmable smart-patch. Virgil's biomed readings had indicated a tremendous pathogen bloom with subsequent hemosepsis. The patch would release great swarms of nanobots to isolate the pathogenic bacteria, analyze its toxin and produce an antidote. First, though, it had to be applied.

Blushing, TinTin tugged his uniform tunic and tee shirt up, revealing the hard, ridged muscles of Virgil's abdomen. There, after a quick iodine swab, she peeled and stuck the smart-patch.

"Bon chance, mon ami," she whispered, gently setting the sick man's head upon a folded cloth (also from the grav cart). God willing, he would live.

But there was another aboard in still greater need. So, while Doctor Hackenbacker set up his emergency medical station and linked with the CDC, TinTin seized another patch and raced aft in search of Gordon.

Thunderbird 2's interior was stiflingly hot and dead-still. Her suit's cooling fan whirred to life as she ran, shielding the girl from the Bird's 100-plus-degree heat. She found Gordon in the rear crew cabin, strapped to a bunk. As she'd sensed, he was in worse condition than Virgil; deep in the cold grasp of shock and paralysis.

"Non, mon coeur," she said to the pallid swimmer, "I promised that I would come, et ici je suis. It would be most impolite of you to depart without thanking your rescuer, n'est-ce pas?"

Thus, she chattered; at one and the same time pulling his sweat-drenched shirt aside to apply another life-saving smart-patch. The peel-and-stick miracle was activated by body heat, and soon flooded Gordon's blood stream with microscopic robots. It also signaled to Doctor Hackenbacker's emergency medical station, reporting on which toxins it found within Gordon.

"V- Very good, TinTin," Brains called from the cockpit, "Your, ah… your s- signal is quite clear."

"Oui, je se," she replied, curtly. But of course, the professor meant well and had done nothing to merit sarcasm. So,

"Merci," TinTin added. "Thank you for the information."

Then, she hesitated. Her uncle entered the thoughts of others to control and destroy them. TinTin Kyrano had to believe that her purpose would always be otherwise. Seeking a spark to fan, the girl's mind brushed at, then blended slightly with Gordon's.

There was body-alive and brain-alive, and Gordon Tracy was both, but only just. She called to him, slipping like soft mist among slow-firing neurons and darkened connections. Not the first time she'd done so, but certainly the most critical. Figuratively speaking, he'd had one hand on the doorknob and was halfway through the final portal when the pale fringe of her thoughts reached Gordon.

Whatever lay on the other side drew him, but not as strongly as the pleading call of a beloved friend. About the same time that his body began to rally, Gordon's brain activity showed a feeble up-tick. Perhaps, if they could find a way to defeat the infection as well as blocking its toxic result, he might be saved. The matter was vital to more than just Virgil and Gordon Tracy, for WNN's Cindy Taylor reported that hundreds of new victims had been admitted to hospitals across France and Spain. If their infection rate continued to spiral, the European Union would soon be shutting down airports and closing borders.

Hiram Hackenbacker rushed in with the bad news, adding,

"TinTin, I've, ah… I've contacted a D- Doctor Pryce in Madrid with everything w- we know: Kim Cho's b- bacteriophage design and, ah… and John's discoveries about th- the Red Path/ WorldGov plot, p- plus the specs on our, ah… our smart-patches. Once w- we get them a sample of that, ah… that phage, the CDC can distribute it to a m- major pharmaceutical firm for, ah… for mass p- production. I went to Pryce w- with all this, because his team's been p- pestering Mr. Tracy about Gordon. S- Seemed like the, ah… the thing to do at th- the time."

Brains glanced up from a flashing databoard, then, squinted through his canted glasses and asked,

"H- How's he doing?"

"It is difficult to say, monsieur," the girl replied quietly, oriental enough to shun poisoning their luck with misplaced hope. "Too early to tell, as the doctors put it."

Brains sighed, wishing to Heaven that he could remove his helmet long enough to adjust those glasses and scratch at this nose.

"W- Well, let's get, ah… get Virgil moved in here and s- set up their IVs. All we need to do is, ah… is keep them alive until Mr. Tracy f- fetches back those viruses."

Obediently, TinTin rose from Gordon's side, meaning to convert her laden grav cart into a floating stretcher. Otherwise, she'd done nearly all that she could. Everything now depended upon the mission of Thunderbird 3.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Space, just beyond Earth atmosphere-_

A sleek, red spear slashed its way free of the planet below, roaring through the last pale traces of air and into hard vacuum. Somewhere out there, drifting along amid millions of tons of glittering junk, was Scooter, the little maintenance drone John had launched.

Scott Tracy re-input his brother's hastily cobbled figures, while their father flew the ship and fielded at least a dozen comm messages. They weren't floating in there. Being far more advanced than _Endurance_ or _Kuiper,_ Thunderbird 3 experienced no loss of gravity. She simply manufactured her own.

"Anything?" Jeff Tracy finally inquired, glancing away from the crowded instrument panel to look at his oldest son.

Scott shook his head.

"Sorry, Dad. Not yet."

The harsh, unfiltered light of space turned every metal scrap and broken-down satellite for ten-thousand miles into a twisting, flickering beacon. This was much less needle-in-haystack than atom-in-galaxy.

Jeff attempted to cover his own worry with a brisk nod and confident smile.

"Well, it wouldn't have gotten this far, anyhow. No sense beating ourselves up, yet."

He seemed restless, though; looking like he wanted to get out and run alongside, examining space junk with his two bare hands.

"…Just triple-check those figures, and set the forward scanners to highest magnification."

Scott sighed, but his answer was patient.

"Yes, sir. Right away." (He'd long since done both of these things.)

Thunderbird 3's cockpit was less cramped than 1's. No special reason, then, for Scott's discomfort, except that he hated letting anyone else drive. Even his father. You didn't tell a former astronaut and Air Force Colonel '_no'_, however. Not on his own damn ship. You simply shut up and let him fly.

Then, about 200,000 miles from Earth, X finally marked the spot. There was Scooter, sailing along its flight path exactly as John had predicted.

"Dad, I've got a signal," Scott called out, hitting a rapid flurry of keys. "Bringing it up on visual… _now."_

The forward scanner magnified one tiny grid section, all at once plastering their view screen with the image of a hurtling, untethered robot on free-return trajectory to Earth. About the size of a suitcase, it was; somewhat dented and radiation scarred, but functional.

Smiling, Scott signaled to the little drone, sending the code phrase John had given him. Scooter answered Thunderbird 3's hail with a brief display of flashing LEDs. _Contact_.

From the pilot's seat, Jeff Tracy said,

"Son, I'd rather not waste time braking this Bird, and then getting her back up to speed again. We've got to reach the Moon Base in less than two hours. Can you catch that thing on the fly?"

"Yes, sir," Scott replied stoutly. He'd made pinpoint covert landings at night, and lined up with KC-20 tankers for midair refueling. Netting Scooter ought to be kindergarten stuff, relatively speaking. "I can manage. You work the stick and I'll handle the butterfly net."

(A Heim generator, actually; mounted in the bow and producing a focused and powerful tractor beam… but Jeff knew what his son was talking about.)

As Thunderbird 3 slid through deep, cold blackness toward the Moon's south pole, Scott deployed her tractor beam. He first switched on a powerful torus of rotating magnetic force, and then fired a laser burst through it, generating gravitons.

Sweeping the particle beam was a little like aiming a forward cannon, except that he didn't have to worry about wind resistance, or out-flying his ordnance. Also, there were no tracer rounds. His view screen produced an image of the invisible gravitons for him, signaling capture when the 'butterfly net' locked onto Scooter.

"Got it!" Scott announced. His smiling father reached over and clasped the younger man's left shoulder.

"Well done, Scott. Now, bring it in… gently… easy does it…"

Capturing Scooter was one thing, maneuvering the NASA drone safely into their hold, quite another. Much as John had done while flitting Scooter through the passages and labs of _Endurance,_ and as TinTin had managed while easing her way into Gordon's unconscious mind, Scott Tracy focused on small movements and tight precision. Very gently, he drew Scooter into the forward hold, scarcely jarring the maintenance drone's life-saving viral cargo. Like a tiny, flashing minnow, it approached the crimson rocket, and was swallowed up whole.

"Full capture," Scott exulted, once the forward hold's doors sealed shut, and a robot arm snagged Scooter. He only realized that he'd been clenching his jaw when a sudden sharp tension headache flowered at the back of his skull.

No matter; John's long distance line-drive had been fielded. Once the payload was brought to Earth, Virgil, Gordon and the rest of the world would have a fighting chance.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Winchester, Virginia; a small, red-brick house-_

Lamar Stennis was playing solitaire at a folding table, with a very old deck of Bicycle playing cards. There was a glass of tepid water at the table's upper right corner, and a small charcoal fire in the hearth. Nothing decorated the walls or floor, and even furniture was kept to an absolute minimum. He had no television, entertainment system or radio, and kept only a handful of books (one a photo album filled with recent newspaper clippings). The word 'Spartan' would have conjured up undeserved visions of luxury, by comparison.

Stennis was (_fixing_, he'd have said, meaning _about_) to place the 43rd card when his cell phone went off in the foyer. He'd left it on the umbrella stand, not wishing to allow the thing any further inside his sanctuary than absolutely necessary. He didn't wish to answer that shrill, beeping summons. Yet, leadership and vision required sacrifice.

Stennis gathered his cards, squared the deck with a few sharp raps, and then slipped it back into a worn old case. Laying the cards down beside his water glass, the senator got to his feet and crossed the barren, chilly room.

Had he been headed to the kitchen for his dinner (bread with butter and sprinkled sugar) he'd have moved faster, but his goal was not a pleasant one, so the senator tarried. Unfortunately, the cell phone was still ringing away on its charger when Stennis reached his tiled foyer.

For some reason, answering the damn thing here was more disturbing than taking a call in his car or office. He picked it up with genuine loathing.

"Go ahead," Stennis snapped into the receiver, "I'm listening."

"Senor," came the silken-voiced response (from Vicente Vargas, his senior staffer and right-hand man). "There has been an incident in 'Tomorrow Land'. The mice are free."

_Damn._

"Senor? Did you hear?"

_Shake it off… plan the next move, and stay ahead._

"Yes, indeed. Message received. Here's what you're going to do, Mr. Black: Meet me below, in three hours. Get in touch with Stirling, and call him off the scent. Sic him on targets 9 and 10, instead, and have him bring them out here. I got a feeling we're about to have company, and a little insurance goes a long way. Comprende?"

"Si, senor," his lieutenant replied. "Your will is heard and shall be acted upon. Will there be anything further?"

"No. Just you gather our pieces. I'll set up the board, and then wait and see who comes out to play. Oughta be fun."


	19. 19: Side Effects

**19: Side Effects**

_The Hudson Valley, New York State-_

On a grey, chilly Saturday in November, Myrna Loy Bremmerman pulled into a Wal-Mart parking lot, her tiny blue Cavalier overflowing with boys.

…And, good heavens, they were noisy! Fermat (they'd used the nickname so continuously now, that even his mother rarely thought of him as 'Kurt') had naturally wished to come. His friends Sam Nakamura and Daniel Solomon had joined the re-supply expedition because Myrna couldn't hold firm in the face of all that pleading. Alan himself had remained behind, having more compelling friends at Wharton and nothing fit to wear.

"Just for that," Daniel announced, as Myrna eased her car ('Elroy') into a safe parking spot, "we ought to get him Spiderman Underoos and fourteen shirts that say: _Kick me, I'm Stoopid._ Maybe some pink bicycle shorts and ankle socks with pom-poms and a sparkly sweater-set and…"

Dark-eyed Sam clapped a hand over his friend's mouth, giving Myrna a weak smile.

"Verbal diarrhea," the younger boy explained. "He never stops talking, but you get used to it."

Daniel shook the hand free, looking outraged. He, Sam and Fermat immediately rushed into battle, while Myrna escaped by setting the parking brake, turning off the engine and getting out of her car.

The boys spilled out a few moments later, still arguing about who talked too much, and exactly which _sort_ of superhero underwear would best suit Alan Tracy. (For the record, Sam voted Wonder Woman, but Fermat stood firm behind Transformers.) Myrna zipped the electronic car key into her fanny pack, and sighed.

"Gentlemen…? _Gentlemen!_ If I may submit a statement, edgewise? Thank you. _I _will do the shopping for Alan and Fermat; I have a list right here… while you three frolic and cavort in the electronics department."

To her son, she said (almost sternly),

"One game is all that I'm buying, Fermat. Make it something diverting and educational. Understood?"

Fermat's tragic expression belonged in a bleak, foreign art film, with subtitles.

"B- But _Mom!_ I need at… least th- three to get me th- through the…"

_"One._ I'm entirely adamant, Ferms. Just… one… game."

Fermat went pale, but it had nothing to do with his mother's draconian videogame restriction. As the victorious particle physicist set off for Wal-Mart, Sam and Daniel whirled on their friend.

"She calls you _'Ferms'?_" Daniel whispered, incredulously.

"Sh- Shut up, 'Boo-Boo'," Fermat grumbled, blushing. No matter what, his mother was infinitely less embarrassing than Mrs. Solomon, who seemed to labor under the delusion that her son was still 3 years old.

"Yes and _my_ mom calls me 'Chibi', during our rare slivers of private time," Sam put in. No one had ever seen his parents, who were involved in some aspect of world politics. His older brother, Edwin, sometimes came to important school events, though. "Are we through with embarrassing nickname hour? Because Fermat's mom needs an escort. She's too busy reading that list to watch her surroundings."

Samuel Nakamura in no way sounded like a ten-year-old, but he was right about Dr. Bremmerman. Only its blatting horn prevented her from stepping into the path of an electric car doing a zesty four miles an hour.

All three boys zipped their teasing and pelted after the startled woman, whose awareness of her environment _did_ tend to fluctuate. Together, they guided her safely past long snakes of robot-pushed shopping carts, electronic advert boards and puddle-slinging internal combustion vehicles.

Once inside the store's glass-fronted foyer, Fermat gave his mother a swift, tight hug and then stepped away.

"Okay, M- Mom… you're on your own, now. Watch where… you're g- going, _don't_ buy anything with c- cute animals on it and, um…" he leaned forward and lowered his voice, very serious now. "S- Stop calling me 'Ferms' in f- front of… my friends, please. It's l- like… flipping saints into th- the Coliseum." (Gordon had said that, once.)

Myrna smiled, in her mind's eye flashing from tiny, wrinkled-red newborn to hurtling toddler to eager kindergartner… to _this_ slightly exasperated, dignified boy. He looked so much like his father.

"Very well," she said, resisting the urge to kiss him. "You three run along and have fun. I'll manage the shopping, and we'll get together in… shall we say… three hours, for overpriced and indigestible grease-burgers?"

"1300 sharp, by McDonalds. Got it."

All four of them stood in the foyer, cross-checking and synchronizing their watches. Then the boys raced off, glad of a Saturday away from campus.

Myrna watched them go, waving when Fermat paused to give her a quick grin and salute. He was growing up, her little fellow… mostly someplace else. Taking on a temporary teaching position at Wharton would help ease her loneliness, but Myrna Bremmerman was beginning to want another child, despite what the time lost would mean to her research and publishing schedule. A little girl, perhaps; someone as quick-witted and full of questions as Fermat.

Followed by personally tailored adverts (apparently, her refrigerator had informed Wal-Mart that she was low on milk) Myrna yanked a shopping cart free of its jammed-together snake and entered the crowded store. A strange experience, shopping; the supporting pillars puffed enticing scents at her and whispered of stupendous bargains in the office supply department. The grocery aisle, meanwhile, had begun hinting that her diet was seriously deficient in leafy green vegetables.

"Forget it," Myrna muttered to a square-dancing spinach hologram. "I get my vitamins like everyone else, from a pill. You're too expensive, anyhow."

(Produce had gone up alarmingly, that year.)

Wal-Mart switched tactics, next puffing out the micro-targeted scents of hot coffee and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls, while the nearest advertising surface displayed an image of sophisticated professorial types reading best-sellers at the coffee shop.

"On the way out," Myrna promised, vowing that next time, she'd do like everyone else, and bring an iPod or MP3 player. A few minutes later, though, she was glad she _hadn't._

Several of the store's TV monitors were tuned to a local news station. As Doctor Bremmerman was reaching for a blue-striped polo shirt, the screen above her cut to WNN. A dark-haired female reporter (so Hollywood-polished that she made Myrna feel sexless and frumpy) began to speak, telling someone named Peter that a serious epidemic had broken out in western Europe.

_"… hundreds have been admitted to area hospitals, Peter, as the death toll continues to rise. The illness is characterized by flu-like symptoms, at first, followed by intense headache, intestinal distress and muscle paralysis. The medical community hasn't encountered anything quite like this particular bug before, so they're urging everyone in Paris and Madrid to stay calm and refrain from travel. All schools, businesses and public transport are closed in both cities, Peter, and there's a military curfew in effect, as of two hours ago."_

Her background kept changing as the news center's IT folk switched street-cam views. Then they cut back to the anchor, a broad-shouldered blond in his late thirties. Did people that beautiful exist in real life?

Myrna listened further, reaching blindly for a pair of khaki dress pants.

_"What about rumors that NASA started this whole thing, Cindy? Is this space-flu __really__ from Mars?"_

Back to the reporter, then, whose smooth, newsgirl-Barbie features shifted just a little. Was that… _emotion?_

_"Peter, while NASA's director could not be reached for comment, it's safe to say that this illness is no fault of the astronauts or space agency. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention are working on identifying and treating this thing, even as we speak. They've dealt with AIDS and Peruvian Fever, Peter… they'll handle this one, as well."_

There was more, something about a terrorist organization, but Doctor Bremmerman's view was blocked by the sudden holographic projection of a giant-robot battle. Evidently, Fermat had found a game he liked.

The rest of Myrna's shopping was conducted in a worried haze. Who did she know at ESU's microbiology department, the physicist wondered?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_New York, at WNN's Queens affiliate-_

Cindy Taylor waited until the auto-cam's status light winked off before allowing herself to relax. People were bustling, hive-like, all around her; busy grabbing their part of the biggest news story to surface since the collapse of the World Unity Complex. And she…

Shaking her head, the reporter stepped away from blue-screen number 4. John Tracy had offered to send her to safety at the Hamptons, but…

"I don't want to go," she growled to herself, stalking back over to makeup and wardrobe. "To hell with safety. I need to be over in Europe, interviewing that CDC team!"

And her father?

Bart Taylor had refused to leave San Francisco after the Big One turned their city into a lawless wasteland. He was their chief of police, and he'd stayed at his post through five years of rioting, martial law and eventual renewal. No… the shell of a man who drooled and slumped at the Golden Acres Rest Home wasn't Bart Taylor. Bart would have instructed his daughter to get out there and do her damn job.

Weirdly, Cindy could feel his presence, just as strongly as if he'd been standing beside her in full dress uniform, ready with one of those lift-you-off-the-floor bear hugs.

"Okay," she told him, quietly. "No Hamptons, for either of us. You sit tight, Bart. Once this is over, I'll give you the official live update, and I'll bring plenty of chocolate pudding."

He enjoyed Jell-O pudding, still; enough to sometimes smile when she fed him a spoonful. God, she missed him… he and Marcy, both. As she'd told Scott, the Taylors had been wonderful parents. They'd saved her life by adopting a hard-to-place, unwanted little girl and making her strong. They wouldn't have cowered, and neither would she.

John Tracy was surprisingly unfazed, once Cindy managed to get through to his wrist comm.

_"It's your call,"_ he said, _"but I'd suggest wearing protective equipment, over there. This is only the beta-version of their space flu, Taylor. If the real thing is released, we're in core-deep shit."_

"No problem. There are very few things I value more than me, Pooky. I'll be careful."

His skinny, blond image jolted around a lot on her cell phone screen. She sat in a small, private dressing room, while he seemed to be striding along a rocky tunnel of some kind.

_"Not that it matters much, Taylor, but could I get you to call me something else? 'John' springs to mind."_

Apparently, he wasn't alone, and this brought out the absolute, devilish worst in Cindy Taylor. All at once sticky-innocent, she inquired,

"Okay… what street did you live on, as a young kid?"

_"Um… Sherwood Court. Why?"_

"Just curious little ol' me, always investigating. And what was the name of your first pet?" Cindy continued, mischievously.  
_"Rusty, but I don't see…"_  
"Ha! That's your porn star name, Rusty Sherwood, and it's what I'm calling you from here on out. That, or Pooky. Take it or leave it, mister."

_"How about you hitch-hike your way to Europe?"_

Damn. How had he guessed that she was going to ask for a lift?

"Fine. Add 'Megalomaniacal Creep' to the list of possibilities. What's the soonest you can get me to Madrid?"

They dickered for a bit, perhaps enjoying the challenge of trying to best each other, but eventually John returned his wrist comm to stand-by and shifted his attention to Penelope. She was walking fast, wearing one of those _"Really, I'm not mad'_ frowns. He hated those.

"Just a friend," John explained, hurrying his pace.

"Yes, well, you do seem to have rather a lot of them." She sounded angry, all right.

"Seriously. She's marrying my brother."

"And quite keen to have him, I'm sure," Penny sniffed, not liking Cindy any better than she had Linda.

They were nearly to the utility hangar now, and John had more important things to do than soothe females.

Finding a deserted bathroom, he set up his laptop in the only stall, then loaded a very small program onto his own ID chip (and Penny's, as well, though she didn't know it).

"Are you quite finished?" Penelope hissed, from just outside the stall door. "Time is not a luxury that we are oversupplied with, darling."

"Yeah," John replied a few seconds later, shutting down and re-casing the laptop. "All set."

Before they left the stone washroom, Penny turned to regard her tall partner, saying,

"You must be well drugged, prior to being brought before my employer. Otherwise, Mr. Black will suspect treachery."

Okay. He'd kind of figured that, but…

"What are you planning to use?" John asked her, concerned about the potential loss of control. This had always been the weak spot in function B.

Penny, however, seemed… pleased? At any rate, she gave his armored back a little tap, purring,

"A mixture of GHB and ketamine, darling. You shall be able to move and answer direct questions, while at long last doing _precisely_ as bidden."

Uh-huh. John was beginning to question the wisdom of letting a former girlfriend drug him, and that smile of hers wasn't helping matters. Bluntly (because he couldn't do otherwise) he asked,

"How far can I trust you?"

"Exactly as far, my dear, as I can trust _you."_

Thinking, _'Yeah… I'm screwed,'_ John pressed further.

"How long will I be under?" he inquired, wishing that he was better at reading facial expressions. Penny, meanwhile, was rooting about in the pockets of her blue coverall, humming softly.

"Long enough to reach the first checkpoint and have your identity verified. Not having second thoughts, are you, darling? As indicated earlier, we _are_ on the same side. Correct?"

Whatever. He didn't much care what her motives were, so long as she brought him within WiFi range of the Red Path mainframe. That's all that had to happen.

As the porcelain-doll blonde readied her injection materials, John offered a final objection.

"Why not wait until we're aboard the utility shuttle?"

Penelope smiled again, but only with her cherry-frosted mouth. The blue eyes above remained as narrow as a card sharp's.

"Because, my dear, in the not-unlikely event that we encounter one of my 'fellow employees', I can then claim to have an IR/NASA prisoner under control, for transport to Mr. Black. Sensible?"

"No, but I don't have time to argue, or come up with anything smarter. Just get me in, Penny. I'll do the rest."

For an instant, they made eye contact, and neither of them was hiding a thing. Penelope's touch, when she reached up to brush some of the hair from his face, was surprisingly gentle.

"I mean to do more than simply convey you into danger, John," she told him. "I intend to see this business through, as your comrade and partner."

Sounded good, but the needle stung his neck like broken glass.

14


	20. 20: Problematic

Thanks, Tikatu, ED, Sam1 and Brezo, for your reviews. Edits and replies soon to come.

**20: Problematic**

_Tracy Island-_

It wasn't Saturday, everywhere. Some places (the island, for instance) were still slogging through the grainy-eyed dregs of Friday night.

Grandma Tracy did not believe in alertness pills. Only in coffee; steaming hot and dense enough to float a dump truck (if it didn't eat through the steel and plastic, first). Victoria Tracy's special ranch house brew might not have waked the dead, but it sure would have troubled their sleep, some.

The island folk needed it, too. Grandma… Gennine… even that elegant shadow, Kyrano, had downed three cups, with almost a harvest's worth of dark sugar. Otherwise, he kept the food coming, occasionally answered the comm, and did his valiant best to corner that damn cat.

(Victoria didn't actually _hate _cats. She'd been mostly noncommittal, until one of her grandsons turned up allergic and manipulative. _Three_ _weeks_ _of_ _school_ John had missed, through sneaking a stray kitten into his room and hiding it there.)

The current scrawny feline seemed well-accustomed to houses and possessed a wicked sense of humor, to boot. She'd wait… odd eyes fixed on Kyrano… let the wheedling manservant come _that_ close to seizing her, then leap gracefully off to another high perch, scattering books and vases in the process. Jeff's office was a shambles, his fine furniture covered in drifting white hair, and his mother tense as a sinew bow-string. Meanwhile, Gordon's little dog had set up a scratchy, barking ruckus outside the patio door, having sensed the presence of an intruder. Repeatedly, he charged the glass, yipping, jumping and clawing like a mad thing. Gennine's peace chants were having no effect at all.

The comm went off almost continuously, drawing responses from Grandma that were peppered with vigorous cursing and the din of splintering bric-a-brac.

"International Rescue! (Dammit, old man, get ahead of her!)" Victoria snapped, jabbing the red comm button. "What's your emergency?"

The caller's response was an almost inaudible cell phone whisper, difficult to make out in all that fuss. Fortunately, Gennine had the presence of mind to reach over and amplify it.

_"On the D.C. commuter rail… please… there's a man, and I think he's going to kill us."_

The noise and chaos might have continued, but Victoria Tracy no longer noticed a thing.

"Which train?" she demanded, waving urgently for attention. "What rail car? Caller, are you there?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Washington, D.C., the westbound commuter subway rail-_

The distress call was not completed, for car number seven of the Potomac Express Line had been isolated, its outside communications quickly and effectively jammed. An intruder had boarded number seven, but his camouflage smart-suit and stealthy movements rendered him invisible until he chose to be seen. When the time came… when he'd found what he wanted… a quick thought shut off the suit, and Stirling popped suddenly away from the background. To the passengers in car number seven, he seemed to just materialize.

Startled, they saw an oddly-proportioned man, not especially tall, with silver-pale, circuit-backed eyes; his body a queasy blending of tendons and sinewy cables, nerves, actuators and power couplings. For an instant, the rail car's screech-rattle-bump and flickering advert screens were all the input there was. Then Stirling thought again, and all down the car, 49 screens cut off in mid-shill. One alone remained operational, flashing golf clubs and get-away vacations beside 237468951: Paul Jacob Crane, NASA.

Somebody gasped aloud, pushing the train's emergency stop button, but nothing happened. The cyborg started forward along the rail car's narrow aisle, his tread heavier than normal for a man that size. Someone stood up in back; municipal transport security officer, armed.

Stirling halted. Adjusting his center of mass to compensate for the train's rocking motion, he shifted his gaze to the trembling security guard, who'd by this time drawn a gun.

"Mister, it's a federal offense to hijack or rob a…"

"Put it away," the cyborg interrupted. "Won't affect me. The deflected bullets will kill someone in row 12, though. Probably the old woman or maybe her husband. Depends on how you hold your weapon."

Not gangland-style, he noticed, but straight-arrow; fully extended, one hand cupping the other. Someone else rose to stand beside the out-of-shape security guard. This one was female, a hard-faced, two-star Army officer. She, too, had pulled a weapon. Dangerous place, D.C.

"Off the train, Tin-man. Move your ass, or I shoot!" The woman ordered.

Something like amusement stirred in him, at that. A transportation rent-a-cop and baby general. Well… he'd worn a uniform, himself, and still believed in the principle of least action (his version, anyhow: _don't risk more than you have to, and never kill for free_). Brushed by the past, Stirling gave them a rare second warning.

"Get it out of your system. But the only one guaranteed not to get hit is me."

In row 10, seat 5, number 429121056: Angela Jean Parks, CentreComm, began to cry. Pretty, but not on his list.

The cyborg resumed motion, drinking fear in little sips from the smells and rapid breathing of those around him. And again with the emergency stop button, which didn't now (and was never going to) work.

He paused, most of his hyper-acute awareness still on those two hesitant guns. The button-presser switched position, trying to shield a blond little boy. Row 11, seat 2, number 351972250: Sylvie Autumn Drew, InterBanc, with minor child. Must have been family outing day.

Before Stirling could say more than,

"Not smart, getting my attention, Beautiful,"

…his mark stood up. Good. Cooperation made things quicker; less messy.

Crane cleared his throat.

"You're, uh… looking for me, I take it? Paul Crane?"

The cyborg nodded assent. Paul had heard rumors of such half-men; leftovers from a defense program kept very quiet and rapidly shut down. Supposedly, they'd all been 'rehabilitated', but here was ghastly, living proof that Uncle Sam had missed a few.

Paul was surprised at the firmness of his own voice when he said,

"Okay, listen… there's no need to harm anyone else. I'll do whatever you want me to, but these people are innocent. Please let…"

The cyborg's face, normally blank, flickered into a brief smile.

"No one is innocent, NASA. We all make choices… and somebody's baby grew up to be Hitler." Then, because it suited his purpose, "Request accepted, if the cop and two-star drop their weapons. Nobody else moves, no one but you gets killed. Limited-time offer."

So he and a rail-car full of people believed. But that lone, frantic cell phone call had already been traced, and a cadre of local operatives was on the move. Before Crane could reply, the subway train lurched to a sudden, grinding halt. Bags, laptops and books went flying. Not Stirling, though; he'd re-concentrated most of his mass into his lower legs. Just then, he was a very hard man to knock over.

Both guns opened up at once, roaring like cannon fire over screams and emergency-stop sirens. Their bullets did not so much as graze him, whining off to clip a businessman's left ear and briefcase, instead.

Not important. Stirling moved faster than the guard and soldier could safely aim. In a single, rapid bound he was before Crane, one hard alloy hand crushing the mark's shoulder. Bones snapped and blood began to seep, but he'd missed his real goal, the man's tie-and-collared throat.

_"Everybody down!"_ the general screamed aloud. Rent-a-cop was already moving, but Stirling paid him no mind, for something else had happened.

_Incoming message-_

RE: Change of plan

Verification code 2631A7-Black (message follows):

//Abort previous mission. Apprehend targets 9 and 10. Proceed with same to the lower shelter, ASAP//

Straightening, Stirling acknowledged receipt of message. Then he dropped his former victim to the rail car's stained and grubby floor.

"Change of plans, NASA. Maybe some other time."

ASAP, they'd said, and Stirling wasted not a moment. He vanished like a nightmare between one breath and another; triggering the subway doors and reactivating his smart-suit. Before anyone present could act to stop him, the cyborg was gone.

Meanwhile, the shock and pain of his injuries had sunk beak and talons deep into Paul Crane, who was surrounded at once by concerned, shouting people.

"We need a doctor in here! Somebody get a med-kit, hurry!"

Several rows forward, Autumn Drew fished a CPR/ First Aid card out of her satchel, and then shoved the open bag into her son's lap.

"Here," she said, giving the wide-eyed boy a swift kiss. "Hold mommy's purse. I gotta go help, but I'll be right where you can see me, okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered, as solemn and quiet as ever. "I'll wait."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The International Moon Station, Peary Crater-_

The vacuum-proof doors behind them had shut and locked, but Junior assured her mother that the 'mens' were mostly gone, anyway. After John, no doubt.

The rest of them… Linda, Cho, Roger, Pete and Janie… hurried along a poorly maintained accessway, heading for the old Moon Station; a primitive cavern/ hangar complex barely two meters below the lunar surface. Pete McCord knew his way quite well, having dug the thing out with Jeff Tracy, Irina Porizkova and a pair of heavy-duty construction-bots. …But that was past and gone.

It was an older, scrappier man who urged his crew to safety past drying coolant puddles, broken machinery and piles of blasted, flaking rock. In several compartments the air was uncomfortably thin, their pumps having ceased functioning. Though, between the shifting tunnel doors and Janie's odd way with machines, there was always enough oxygen to keep them going.

The entire crew took turns carrying their sleepy child, who stayed awake because she had to, and because daddy (she informed them tearfully) was in trouble.

_Elsewhere_-

John Tracy was being shepherded through another part of the station by a smaller, now hazard-suited companion. Drugged and compliant, he walked rather slowly, requiring frequent sharp commands to keep him moving.

Penny's intuition turned out to be correct. Having lost their astronaut captives, a handful of Red Path agents had regrouped by the station's utility hangar. Good thinking, if you were trying to prevent an escape, but a move that Penelope and John had anticipated and planned for.

As they rounded a bend in the metal-hooped tunnel, the lovely mercenary spotted three of her comrades-in-pay guarding the hangar's inner door. Like her, they wore yellow hazard suits and obvious weaponry.

John halted, stubbornly resisting Penny's chemically induced confusion. She prodded him once, and then again, harder.

"Forward, darling," Penelope murmured, readying her stun-gun. "You _must_ not seem to be waking."

The guards stirred, one of them calling to their commander. As she'd surmised, the remaining Red Path conspirators were few in number, thinly spread, and extremely cautious in such a high-tech obstacle course.

Their leader came forward a bit, shouting,

"Identify yourself!"

"Penelope Coates," she replied icily, making a great show of pushing at John. "I've a prisoner; one of the Ares crew that _you_ lot managed to misplace."

"Hold on," the commander muttered. "I'm calling it in."

To his men, he added,

"Keep her covered, and scan the astronaut. If either of them moves for the door, open fire."

Penelope affected not to care, remaining relaxed at John's side even when a second guard slunk forward with a gingerly-held portable scanner.

"Tracy, John M." the man announced, after passing his scanner across the apparently mindless astronaut. "One of the crew, all right. He's carrying a huge load of exobacteria and seems pretty thoroughly drugged, sir. Not a trick, I'd say."

The commander grunted, evidently waiting on a decision from further up. Finally, he said something respectful to the glitching wall comm, and then turned back to Penny.

"Okay, you're in. Bring him this way, ma'am. Mr. Black will address you privately."

Once she'd gotten John moving again, the commander fell into step beside Penny. He was 'Deacon', according to the nametape on his yellow suit, and really quite conciliatory.

"Sorry for the delay, Genovese. The precautions were…"

"Quite in order," she finished for him. "Especially after I was forced to attack one of our own, in order to win the crew's trust. You did precisely as you should have, Commander Deacon. After all, I might have been anyone; an armed station scientist, a mining robot or escaped astronaut, for example. There are certainly enough of them running about unaccounted for."

Deacon could perhaps be excused for failing to rifle through John Tracy's hardsuit and belt pouches, or the laptop case that Genovese carried. Worried and trying to hide it, he showed Penelope into the preflight lounge and then hurried back to his waiting men.

There was a table in the rudely chiseled room, some scattered green couches and a vending machine. Penny scarcely glanced at them, however, for her attention had been drawn to the back wall. A theatre-sized television screen had been set up there, one mysteriously exempt from the effects of her paramour's mischief. Instead of cutting off, or flashing through dozens of hopelessly scrambled images, it displayed the distorted silhouette of a man. On a separate system, perhaps?

Once again, John halted, but he couldn't summon the will to fight her continuing shove. Penny brought him to mid-chamber, and then glided closer to the screen.

"Mr. Black?" she enquired, flipping up the mirrored portion of her suit's visor.

"Yes. And your ID chip confirms your claim to be Genovese. You have three minutes to explain why this prisoner is important enough to be brought to Earth."

Penelope kept her face bland and her breathing under control. About her pulse, though, there was nothing the sometime operative could do. Best push on and brazen it out, then. In a calm voice, she said,

"He is one of the Ares crew and a son of Jeff Tracy, who remains among the Red Path's most coveted targets. The load of pure exobacter he bears is more than sufficient to yield a thousand new disease cultures, and…"

_(Her trump card…)_ "He is also an International Rescue prime operative; their computer support technician, as it happens."

The screen darkened for a long moment, as though Mr. Black were conferring with another. Then his scratchy voice and flickering outline reappeared.

"Very well, Genovese. Cut out and destroy his ID chip. Repeat: the chip is to be removed and destroyed, not merely overloaded. You will then bring him to Earth via shuttle, landing at the Baltimore West freight pad. A driver and guard team will meet you there, for transport below. Am I understood?"

Behind the clear plastic of her faceplate, Penelope nodded.

"Quite clearly, sir. And will I receive a bonus for this capture?"

This time, Black did not consult.

"We will conclude our negotiations upon your arrival, Genovese. Proceed as ordered."


	21. 21: Escalation

Thanks Sam, ED, Brezo and Tikatu. Edits soon to come.

**21: Escalation**

_Washington, D.C., in a grey limousine en route to an underground bomb shelter- _

Indira Chatterjee's image betrayed clear signs of agitation. Although she strove to conceal her emotion, the defense minister's pupils were very wide; black pits in the rich brown field of her irises. Genovese had looked much the same, over the emergency link he'd had 'Shr3ddr' concoct.

_"He has grown dangerous," _she said. "_More than that, obviously insane."_

Vargas answered nothing, drawing further revelations from the WorldGov turncoat.

_"I believe in the vision of Red Path, do not mistake me… but I cannot countenance the total extinction of our species, a possibility that your master dismisses with a shrug. Mr. Black, something __must__ be done. I believe that it is time for new blood in the upper echelons."_

She spoke sedition, this regal woman with her gold-decked purple sari and serpent's whisper. Vargas should have ended transmission there and then. Instead, because the image she conjured was a pleasing one, he listened further.

_"Would not the Red Path be better served by a leader with less fervor and more… practicality, shall we say?"_

"You speak of betrayal and murder."

Vicente Vargas was an unflinchingly straightforward man. He never lied to himself about his own motives, or those of others. He was also loyal… to a point.

"You are suggesting that I have the leader killed, and then step into his role, myself."

There were problems with this scenario, chiefest among them being his own lack of political power, but Madame Chatterjee seemed not to care.

"_Indeed, Mr. Black… I __do__ suggest it, for the good of Red Path; that something may be salvaged from this travesty. We cannot keep the deliberate nature of this plague a secret for much longer. These wretched doctors and their International Rescue informants are far too inquisitive to let the matter rest. Your leader's solution is simply to end all opposition… and alliance… through world-wide pestilence. But tell me, Mr. Black…"_

Chatterjee leaned forward, bringing her outraged face (its golden nose ring quivering) very close to the screen.

"…_Who will be left to celebrate victory among the bones and ashes? When all that remains are rotting corpses, who will be king?"_

In this way, she polished the apple and offered it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The utility shuttle __'Goliath'__, shortly before takeoff-_

The ore carrier's flight path was preprogrammed, or her pilot would not have risked a launch. Other than a single, televised link, the station's comm systems had grown wildly unreliable, making space flight a risky proposition. One for which Jim Tanner expected to be well paid.

He, like the Red Path med techs and doctors, was a hired gun; willing to ferry anything, anywhere, no questions asked. Usually, he and _Goliath_ carried ore. Sometimes, guns and contraband. Today, passengers.

They'd entered through the pilots lounge boarding tube, a slim, shapely woman and her vacant-seeming companion. (Or prisoner. Tanner didn't need or want to find out.) He kept to the grimy cockpit while they arranged themselves in _Goliath's _crew quarters, probably getting 'space flu' germs all over the damn place.

'_Have to fumigate, afterward,'_ Tanner thought, disgustedly. _'Probably change registration again, too.'_

Once the mysterious couple was settled in, Tanner flashed his running lights, signaling a team of space-suited roustabouts to manually retract the boarding tube. Thanks to the work of a stupid damn hacker, everything had to be done by hand, or mechanically, with ratchets, robots and sweat.

Fortunately, there were no giant doors to open, for the utility launch site was roofless. All Tanner had to do, once the pad was clear and _Goliath_ free of her shackles was to lift off.

The ore carrier's three engines had been warming up for twenty minutes. Like the pilot, they were more than ready to go. Tanner's face and wiry body tensed expectantly as he triggered a full burn, launching _Goliath _directly into that cold, black sky. The universe shook. A bomb-like roar drowned out the sounds of his racing heart and labored breathing, while the overhead instrument panel blossomed, as always, with warning lights.

She was an old ship and full of complaints, liking the launch pad much better than open space, these days. Still pretty fast, though.

Beneath him, the Moon dropped rapidly away, pocked and dented as _Goliath's _hull. Gravity fell off almost immediately, allowing Tanner to unstrap from his couch. He flashed his lights once as a sort of 'good bye'. Old habit of an even older pilot, he supposed, shrugging a little.

_Goliath_ gained altitude and the stars flowered around her, burning like fireworks. The Sun's white disk had yet to emerge, being low on the horizon at this time of year, but Earth was there; nightside-dark and dusted with lights. You could stare forever at a view like that… until time for the first course correction, anyway.

Far enough from the south pole Moon Station to do no harm, Tanner gimbaled his rocket engines and cut on _Goliath's_ ion drive. Course B, this time; straight down the Shackleton cargo lane to Baltimore West.

"We're on our way," he called back, unnecessarily. The change in his ship's vibration and engine noise would have given her flight status away, even had he not said a word. Besides… one of his passengers was a NASA astronaut, if Tanner's quick glimpse and guesswork were at all accurate. Might have wondered why a returning explorer had been made prisoner by the Red Path, if he hadn't been very well paid to mind his own business and fly. At this point, curiosity was not just unhealthy, but bad for business.

Back in the dimly-lit crew quarters, Penelope Creighton-Ward was too preoccupied to hear, much less respond to, their pilot's needless remarks.

_'Remove his ID chip'_, she'd been told; a singularly worrisome request. There were simpler ways to blank a chip and hide a valuable hostage. Destroying the thing utterly, rather than overloading or wiping it, seemed a prelude to quick, secret murder.

Once the engines cut off and that tooth-rattling jolting ceased, Penny unstrapped herself and pushed away from her stained and sagging couch.

"Not even business class," she muttered. "I've been reduced to wretched, bloody _freight."_

It always depressed her, how the other half lived. Silently renewing her vow to never, _ever,_ join the squalid ranks of the less-fortunate, Penelope drifted across the cabin to John's couch. He seemed restless; half-asleep and fighting it.

"Darling," she whispered, caressing his blond hair, "this may sting a bit, but it will help us seem to be complying."

He'd got to have his left gauntlet removed, first, a process involving some rather complex zero-G gymnastics. Then, once the jointed glove was free and floating off, Penny set up her 'operating theatre'. She pulled from her coverall a packet of iodine swabs and a gauze pad. No needle, this time, but a slim little knife with a bright-honed blade, instead.

"I promise to be quick," she told him, though of course, he didn't respond. Or… _almost_ didn't. Oddly, when she took John's left hand to begin cutting, he very slowly and weakly clasped hers. Mere reflex, no doubt. An infant would have done the same. Yet…

"All will be well, dearest. Please trust that I know _precisely_ what I am doing."

If she'd expected another squeeze, Penelope was disappointed. John simply hung between straps and couch, nearly insensate, while _Goliath_ sped onward and Penny prepared to cut. Three quick swipes of strong-smelling brown iodine, first. Then, a brief probing hunt with her right forefinger, to ascertain the exact location of his ID chip.

"Damn it all," she snapped, quite aggrieved. "The wretched thing's buried in connective tissue."

Nothing for it but to hunt further. A few minutes later, thinking that she'd found one end of the deeply wedged chip, Penny brought the knife close, hesitated, and then began to cut. She'd wielded blades before (once in a desperate rooftop battle with a fleeing spy) but never against John, who'd saved her life that night, and several times since.

Human flesh did not cut smoothly. It was dense, somewhat stretchy, and pulled at her knife blade. Blood formed quick, dark bubbles at the gash, several of them drifting away before Penny could catch and absorb them. Worse, John's arm and hand muscles clenched spasmodically, driving the chip deeper.

"Darling, _relax!"_

She did not wish to drug him further, having need of an alert and conscious partner, some forty-five minutes after landing. Thirty, if their Red Path driver faced little traffic.

"I shan't be able to retrieve a damned thing if you refuse to cooperate. There's a good lad…"

But her second attempt was no more successful than the first, third or fourth. Although John could not have been _willfully_ doing so, each time that her knife blade neared the raw wound, his muscles tensed. Forced to choose between defeat and butchery, she opted use IR's method for blanking ID and cease attempting the impossible. Of course, by that time, there was a swirling constellation of blood droplets filling the air and Penny had a mess to tidy.

Grumpily bandaging her semi-conscious paramour, Penelope told him,

"You are far and away the least satisfactory partner that I have ever been forced to work with!"

And yet, she loved him. With body, mind and heart, she craved a return to the past, when they'd still been together. The rest of the world could go hang if she might have John, with Parker, Elspeth, one or two others and TinTin, perhaps, for additional company.

Sighing, Penelope finished dressing the small, ugly wound. Then she freed herself from her stabilizing loops and set off to capture a hundred small bubbles of blood. She'd not collected above half, when a sharp noise and sudden movement from below sent her careening into the overhead.

Unbelievably, John had begun to wake, fighting his restraint straps and drugs with growing determination. Bad enough under ordinary circumstances, but the NASA hardsuit he wore had doubled John's strength. Two of his launch restraints ripped free before Penny could reach him.

Pushing away from the overhead, she flew to his side.

"Hush, darling! Be still, or you'll have the pilot on us."

"Pen…" he grunted, as she hastily dialed back the suit's strength level. "Head hurts."

Withdrawal migraine, but too soon. He ought to have been good for another few hours, at least. Waking _now_, he threatened everything.

"Shhh…! Do be still. There's a dear. I'll fetch you an aspirin and water, directly I've done with all this bloody… well, _blood."_

Couldn't have the nasty, quivering stuff gumming up anything vital, after all. And for once, thank Heaven, he obeyed her. Penny felt quite warm toward the confused young astronaut… until he got sick from the drug she'd given him and heaved up his breakfast. At that point, Penelope was prepared to open a hatch and space him.

"Doing this on purpose, I shouldn't wonder! Doubtless your notion of a fine joke!"

The stuff had gone flying in every direction; onto a few cabin sensors, even, prompting the pilot to call,

_"What's going on, back there?"_

Penny was running short of washcloths and patience.

"Nothing at all, my good man. Merely a bit of space-sickness brought on by overwrought nerves and exhaustion. Everything here is well in hand, I assure you."

Under her breath, as she flew about the cabin cleaning the bulkheads, deck and air, Penny complained,

"One has _servants_ for this sort of thing, you know."

She'd calmed considerably by the time Penelope was able to bring her 'captive' his water and a mild sedative. Despite everything, cleaned up and subdued, he was a remarkably attractive young man. Very much worth defending.

So, at the appropriate moment, just before it would have been too late to correct _Goliath's_ course, Penny took up certain items and went forward.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Mid-afternoon, at the Hudson Valley Wal-Mart, in upstate New York-_

Myrna Bremmerman directed her shopping cart toward the checkout pylons, her worried blue eyes darting after any TV screen that displayed a talking news-head. Things were looking grim in Europe, she learned. The English king had gone so far as to close Britain to foreign traffic, and…

"Mom… _MOM!"_

No matter what (on a cliff-side rookery crowded with millions of screeching chicks, even) a mother alerted to the sound of her own child. Myrna released the shopping cart and pivoted to face that frantic shout and running footsteps.

Fermat was racing full-tilt up the magazine aisle, trailing Sam Nakamura and Daniel Solomon. All three boys were wide-eyed and pale as though frightened clean out of their wits.

Holding forth his wrist comm, Myrna's asthmatic young son collapsed in the physicist's arms.

"It's… A- A- Alan, Mom! He's b… H- He and Springfield were at the s- stables, and…"

Myrna got the boy's inhaler out of her fanny pack and helped him bring the small can to his mouth. Three pumps in rapid succession, while she cupped the back of his touseled head.

"Breathe, baby. Nice and deep, now."

As Fermat drew a few deep, painful gasps, Dr. Bremmerman looked over at Sam and Daniel.

"What's going on?" she demanded.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Given the hundreds of people now staggering into Madrid's main hospital, barely strong enough to drag themselves, it was of little consequence to anyone but his parents and sister, when Damien LeClaire ceased fighting for life. After all, the teenaged Olympian was far from the first that day, nor would he be the last.


	22. 22: Narrow Escape

Re-edited.

**22: Narrow Escape**

_Previous evening, on I-66 westbound from Winchester, Virginia-_

It had taken Stennis several hours to reach the Red Path's nerve center, a converted government bomb shelter located below ground, between the mall and Potomac River. Even at this time of night, D.C. traffic was fierce, but the senator still preferred to avoid public transport. It was easier to think in a car, one of the few fruits of modern technology he didn't mind using.

The night was cold and drizzly; a blur of yellow headlights, thumping wiper blades and hissing, smearing rain. Probably should have kept his mind on the road, but Vargas' last update had Stennis in a frenzy of speculation.

Genovese had captured one of the escaping astronauts (Pretty Boy, as it happened). More, under the influence of her control drugs, he'd apparently confessed to being high up in the ranks of International Rescue. Lamar Stennis was not a stupid man. The links were there, for anyone with a pencil and a sharp enough mind to connect the dots.

_John Tracy… NASA… Tracy Aerospace… International Rescue… to Jeff Tracy, himself._

Made sense, once you linked the family name and corporation to their rescue organization. _Well, well, well…_ He was about to have three valuable hostages, then; three human shields with which to keep International Rescue at bay while his modified alien germs cleansed the Earth.

The senator's car shook, fishtailing on the wet black road as a much larger vehicle roared past him to the right. He had an intensely gripping few seconds during which his little grey hatchback nearly swerved into oncoming traffic, but the tires were good and the onboard guidance computer still better. He didn't crash.

_Damn…_ second close call in one evening. He'd be extremely relieved, Stennis thought, when there were no such things as cars, phones, TVs or excess people. Women, especially. Granted, you needed a few for breeding purposes, but most were expendable; weak, vacillating and completely untrustworthy. _His_ world… his new, _clean_ world… did not need their kind.

Driving toward D.C., and the underground labyrinth he'd appropriated there, Stennis considered and he planned. _Yup._ Once he had confirmation that Stirling had acquired the hostages, and Pretty Boy was under interrogation, he'd call Jeff Tracy up and say hello.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, nearing the International Moon Station-_

The closer he got, the odder it felt. Thirty years before, he'd piloted _Explorer I_ from pad 39A at the Kennedy Space Center to Peary Crater at the Moon's South Pole. With him aboard ship had been Pete McCord and Irina Porizkova. Both McCord and Porizkova were still astronauts. Jeff had chosen otherwise, using the contacts and know-how he'd acquired with NASA to create a powerful corporation… and International Rescue.

And now, he was back. Full circle, after thirty long years. The Moon was still just as harshly beautiful as he remembered; stark-lit along the mountain peaks, dense black and swallowing-dark in the shadows.

It was hard not to think of that earlier time, and how three pioneering astronauts had set out to build an outpost for all mankind. So much had happened since, was going on _now_, but back then all that had mattered was getting to the Moon, digging out a few tunnels, and setting up the bare start of a habitat. Pete and Irina had been carrying on like rabbits (in secret, they thought) but Jeff had managed to keep his mind on the mission, and that all-important checklist. But that was then.

Here and now, Thunderbird 3 sliced cleanly past Mount Clementine and the rim of Peary Crater, her shadow flitting like an animate ink blot over boulders, ridges and narrow, branching cracks. Bluish Earth-shine lit their way, along with a rind of white-hot sun.

Jeff could see the flashing lights and hangar doors of the International Moon Station ahead, but steered clear. His actual target was built inside the crater's western rim, and much smaller. It had recently been declared a national monument, believe it or not: _Explorer Base._

As they neared the old station, Jeff guided Thunderbird 3 lower still. With half his mind, he attended to flying the space ship. With the other half, he listened to Scott, who was checking in with Dr. Hackenbacker and Island Base.

"Yeah… just do the best you can, Brains, and keep us posted. I doubt they could get better medical care anywhere else. Tell Virge and Gordon to hang in there, and that we're moving on this as fast as possible. Tell them not to worry… we're going to come through."

The comm hissed briefly, and then Hackenbacker's image replied, saying,

_"U- Understood, and w- will, ah… will do, Scott. I've b- been in close touch with, ah… with the CDC, and th- they're prepping for delivery of, ah… of th- those bacteriophage cultures."_

Scott Tracy nodded; his blue-violet eyes and square jaw as grimly set as Jeff had ever seen them.

"We'll get it there, Brains. We've got the cure for this thing in the forward hold, right now. Just have to pick up some astronauts, first."

_"I, ah… I know, Scott. Th- The scientific and medical community has, ah… has complete f- faith that International Rescue's m- mission will succeed."_

Grandma Tracy had other, more disturbing news.

_"He come outta nowheres, the witnesses said. Just popped up like a metal ghost and tried to rip that NASA feller's arm clean out the socket. Sumthin' run him off, first, but no one knows what. Our people didn't get there till afterward, so it couldn't have been __them__."_

In a minute, Scott was going to have to cut comm and focus on helping with Thunderbird 3's landing procedures. Another high-profile hit, so soon after the beating death of Brett Carmichael, was pretty damn scary, though.

"It was a cyborg or robot?" he asked Victoria Tracy, who had Blanche beside her on the desk, lapping milk from a china saucer. No sign of Kyrano, anywhere, though.

_"Looks like it. Folks on the train damn near had the piss scared out of 'em. Our people treated fourteen cases of hysteria once they got, what's his name… __Crane__ (thank you, Jenny-girl….) once they got Crane patched up for transport."_

Scott glanced at his father. Would any more CEOs and agency administrators be attacked? Said Jeff to the comm screen,

"Mother, we're going to have to sign off. You're doing a fine job, and I appreciate all the support that you, Gennine and Kyrano have provided. This one's taking every brain, heart and back the family's got left to offer. We couldn't have gotten so far without you."

Grandma Tracy cleared her throat, and then nodded. Behind her, Gennine was smiling mistily and playing with her own soft, blonde hair. Said Victoria,

_"Jeffery Connal, I do believe that's the best thing anyone's said to me all day. Keep 'em straight up there, boy. We'll hold things together down here."_

She was a surprisingly strong little woman; silver-haired and erect, and her approval meant a great deal to Jeff Tracy.

"Yes, Ma'am. We'll be back before you miss us, with your new great-granddaughter. Tracy, out."

The warmth he was feeling floated Jeff all the way to Explorer Base's small concrete landing pad and clear on through touch down. He made a pinpoint landing by the crater wall, on half-impeller. Hopefully, between Shadowbot and all the chaos at IMS, their arrival had gone unmarked.

_'Have to be a damn quick turnaround,'_ Jeff thought, _'Get in, get 'em and go.'_

Pete was no doubt sharp enough to have his crew suited-up and waiting by the launch pad door. All IR had to do was pull their taxi up to the curb and figuratively honk the horn.

"Get the mobile airlock ready, son," he told Scott, once they'd touched down, and the engines were quiet. "I want to be wheels-up and headed back in fifteen minutes."

"Yes, sir. On my way."

Scott was unstrapped and out of his seat before he'd completed the statement, moving like a man who had places to be. The mobile airlock was an invention of Brains', meant to connect the main rescue hatch on Thunderbird 3 to just about any craft, satellite or station in existence. It would have to be unpacked and moved to the cargo bay before they could use it, though.

Once they'd gotten things arranged, Scott and his father donned space suits and then passed through the main airlock and down a short ladder to the lunar surface. Walking on the Moon was awkward, at first. They'd left 3's artificial gravity behind and were suddenly much lighter than usual, bounding around like jackrabbits in a landscape of pure, bleak desolation.

When they'd relearned the art of walking, Jeff and Scott Tracy triggered open the cargo bay and pulled out their mobile airlock. Although weighing one-sixth of its Earth-side 700 pounds, the thing (like an extensible tube with hatches at either end) was still quite bulky and difficult to maneuver. Hooking the near end to the red Bird's outer hatch was easy. Wrestling its free end over to Explorer Base required tools, sweat and a great deal of patience. Eventually, however, its shape-memory contact ring mated to the old-fashioned scarp-side shield door which Jeff himself had wedged into place thirty years earlier.

A small status light on the airlock's contact ring flashed green. Inside his space suit, Jeff nodded to himself. The MA hung now like a big, double-headed leech, connecting his old base to the rescue ship.

"Back inside," he told Scott via helmet comm. "We'll enter through the cargo bay, traverse the ship and reach Explorer Base through the boarding tube. Knowing Pete, he'll want to be sure who we are before he risks taking a walk."

John had had the party's only working comm, but he'd left some time ago with Lady Penelope. At this point, everyone was operating on prearranged plans.

_"Yes, sir,"_ Scott agreed, sounding a lot closer than he was.

Back across the faintly painted launch pad, then, and into the red Bird, where normal gravity made getting around a little more intuitive. They were already seven minutes past Jeff's original goal; running critically late, but there was simply no rushing of airlock procedures on the Moon. Not if you wanted to live.

Maybe, if he'd had time to think, Scott would have been thrilled by all this, but at the moment, all that concerned him was getting the job done. He followed his father back out through the rescue hatch, again, this time entering a translucent yellow tunnel. It curved downward like the grand staircase back home, swaying gently beneath their low-gravity footfalls.

There was air within, so Scott could hear his father walking, something he'd unconsciously missed, outside. The spacesuit was noisy in its own fashion, but no real substitute for environmental sounds.

At the outer hatch to Explorer Base, Jeff Tracy knocked once and was answered from within by a Morse-coded query.

_"Atmosphere beyond (question mark)"_

Thinking that their old-school equipment and sensors must have started glitching, Jeff tapped back,

_"Affirm breathable atmosphere in boarding tube (period) Safe to proceed (period) International Rescue here for damn suspicious naviator and crew (period)" _

The hatch opened at last, revealing a cautious, suited and armed Pete McCord. He held a taser-like stun gun, while the big man behind him brandished a sharpened metal strut. Jeff couldn't help smiling a little.

"Neighborhood's deteriorated that badly, huh?"

Pete grinned at him, gap-toothed, red-haired and homely as ever.

"Well, you know how it is, Jeff. Damn girl scouts and missionaries just won't leave us alone."

Embracing in space suits was comically difficult, but Jeff Tracy and a very old friend managed the feat. Then,

"Pete, Captain Thorpe, this is my oldest son, Scott. We're here to take you home."

The ladies emerged through an inner hatch, once they'd received the all-clear. Kim Cho had a make-shift club of her own, while Linda Bennett carried something small and wriggly in a pink-patterned blanket. Jeff dared not get too close… he'd been out on the surface, and fairly pulsed with radiation… but he was certain he'd caught a glimpse of blue eyes and sunshine-golden curls. From a safe distance, he cleared his throat and said something welcoming to Linda and Cho.

McCord waved the ladies forward, completing the crew, but for one; John was off with Lady Penelope, hunting down the space-flu's Red Path connection.

"Thanks for the lift," Pete said, once they'd crossed the mobile airlock to Thunderbird 3. "Where do you intend on taking us? Houston?"

Jeff dragged his attention away from his still-hidden granddaughter long enough to reply.

"I had two destinations in mind, actually, both of them fairly remote. One is a space station called Thunderbird 5. She's not 100 percent operational, yet, but a safe temporary hideout, I think. On Earth, there's an island I own in the South Pacific, San Marcos. I already have a medical team on-site, but it's otherwise uninhabited."

The mission commander glanced at his crew, who voted unanimously in favor of Earth (except for Janie, but the girl's mother quickly shushed her).

"If it's all the same to you, Skipper," Roger explained, "I'd like to get out of this damn space gear and breathe some fresh air. San Marcos is practically across the street from Samoa, you know."

McCord looked at Cho and then Linda, both of whom nodded assent.

"I'm with Roger, Pete (Kara Jane, _hush!_ You're going to love Earth, I _promise_.) I want warm air, real wind, and a sun that won't flash-fry me if I step outside. Let's…"

The baby girl in her arms was behaving oddly. Wide-eyed and apparently unseeing, Janie made several sharp thrusting motions, each time shouting,

_"Stop!"_

Then, inexplicably, she burst into tears, holding her left hand out to auntie Cho. The exobiologist scooped her up, kissing Janie's hand and anguished little face. Not good enough. Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy went straight to the top. She reached for the mission commander, who caught her close the way Jeff wished he could.

"Unca Pete, that's a bad lady! Stupid Moon has bad, mean ladies! Tell her _stop,_ Unca Pete. Make daddy wake up!"

Jeff was utterly mystified, and the Ares crew reluctant to explain their junior crewman's odd behavior. Quite obviously, though, Janie's words concerned them. Turning to his old friend and former pilot, Pete said,

"Jeff, if you've got some way to do it quietly, could you check on Tracy? _John,_ that is?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_An ore carrier's living area, somewhat later-_

Rousing a little, he completed two separate thoughts:

_'I think, therefore I think I am…'_ and,

_'Owww….'_

Someone appeared to have parked an elephant on top of him, and then set a slow fire at his left wrist for a little added fun. _Shit._ 'Lethargic', 'nauseous' and 'disoriented' would have been phrasing things optimistically. Nevertheless, "Tracy, John M." managed to work free of his safety restraints and more or less sit up. Opening his eyes was another, more painful matter. And, hey… that was one monster-bitch of a rampaging headache he'd picked up.

_'Yeah. Welcome to Earth, jackass.'_

Slowly, John noticed that he was still in the hardsuit, less one gauntlet. He cycled it back up to full power with a hand that didn't shake too much. Weird… his left wrist had been bandaged, but a faint pulsing warmth from the region assured John that he hadn't lost his ID chip or the tenuous link to Five. Why would someone start to cut it free, and then quit? And why was he still sitting there just wondering about it?

Braced by his hardsuit, John pushed himself off of the couch and managed to rise. He was in… looked like the crew cabin of an old freighter, but he couldn't rub two brain cells together and come up with some spark as to how the hell he'd ended up there.

_'Okay… find the head, wash_ _up, shave that damn scruff off your face, and do some serious thinking_', John instructed himself. He'd brought his toothbrush from the quarantine habitat, and there were fresh inserts in the head for a disposable razor he found there. No shaving cream in evidence, but he'd shaved dry before, and right now cleanliness equaled setting his mind in order. In fact, if something didn't come to him, soon, he was going to have to start scrubbing the damn shower stall.

Penelope walked in just at the point where he was slicing his own neck apart, trying to shave beneath his chin. He glanced at her reflection in the spotted little bulkhead mirror, and then turned for a closer look.

"No fake-up?" he asked, mildly astonished at Penny's bare, rather soft-seeming face and simple ponytail. The look she shot him was pure, seething poison, though.

"Unspeakably rude as ever, I see."

She lathered up some hand soap (which he hadn't thought of doing), spread it onto his neck and chin, then proceeded to finish shaving him.

"If you must know, in all the hubbub and to-do of our departure, I quite forgot to bring along a cosmetics bag. Rather than trot about with a peeling paint job, I elected simply to wash it all off. Satisfied?"

John shrugged, which earned him another stinging razor cut.

_"Ow._ No problem, Penny. Just never seen you like this, is all."

For some reason, he thought of Drew, who'd treated her own face as a Goth canvas, repeatedly slashed her arms to release pain, and transformed her collection of Hello Kitty dolls into stuffed Franken-toys. Come to think of it, he'd never seen _her_ without makeup and hair dye, either.

As Penelope toweled the lower half of his face dry, John changed the subject.

"Where are we?" he asked her.

"In the midst of what passes upon Earth for nowhere: New Mexico."

_Um… wrong answer._

"What happened to the plan? You were supposed to take me someplace else… Red Path headquarters, _that's _it. We were going to infiltrate and sabotage their nerve center. What the hell happened, Penny?"

Her head lifted, and those soft, delicately bare features settled into a sudden sharp scowl.

"Simply put, I pulled the plug, Darling. The scenario had become far too hazardous."

_Of all the…_

"Okay, once again, that was stupid. All you had to do was get me inside. You could have left me with the door guards and just taken off, if…"

She slapped him, then, shouting tearfully,

"Shut up, can't you? I was absolutely _not_ afraid for myself!"

Dammit, he hated it when females cried at him. Automatically, John applied the usual remedy for feminine tears. He pulled her into a close hug, pressing Penelope against his still hard-suited chest.

"I'm sorry," he told her. "But if you weren't afraid for yourself, why not follow the checklist? We had a plan, remember?"

"You should have been killed, dear, and not gently, either. Not until the very last particle of useful information had been torn loose and recorded. Their technicians, my love, are as skilled as they are pitiless. I… you'll have to forgive me, John. I simply could not abide nor allow the possibility."

Great. She'd wrecked everything; risked God knows how many innocent lives, just to spare him the threat of torture. For _what…?_ What the hell made him worth blowing her cover and their best chance to bring down the Red Path? _Dammit, all she'd had to do was get him inside! Even if they'd killed him outright, she had an infected chip, too. The plan would_ _have_ _worked_.

But he lowered his head anyhow, to kiss her golden hair and makeup-less forehead. After all, she'd meant well, and there was always plan C… contact dad, fall back and regroup.

Penny pulled slightly free of his grasp, just enough to reach up and begin massaging the back of his neck. Tears very much dried now, she whispered,

"We've an hour or so before Parker arrives, and light exercise is highly recommended for re-accustoming one's self to Earth gravity. Shall we have this bothersome suit off, then?"

All things and contracts considered, John was honestly glad when his wrist comm went off. Their 'exercise' turned out to be rather different than Penny had hoped, thanks to a desperate distress call from Alan.


	23. 23: The Knight Before

More further edits. Thanks, ED, SusanMartha and Tikatu, for your kind reviews of 22 and 23.

**23: The Knight Before**

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men, Carnegie Hall, room 220-_

The night before had been rough, because he kept expecting to have his door rattled by a marathon-racing phantom, and because he didn't have his own stuff to sleep in. Losing your luggage _sucked, _man. No toothbrush, soap… _nothing_. He had to sleep in the tee-shirt and green pajama pants that Chris Springfield brought over (too large by half; dude must've been living at the gym, or something) and brush his teeth with a wet finger.

Anyways, between all that _'dude, where's my gear?' _drama and just being alone in a new place, Alan Tracy found it very hard to sleep. It happened eventually, though. Sometime between moonset and grey, chilly dawn, Alan dropped his PS-Nano and drifted off.

He was in the middle of a cool dream, paddling after the biggest, most dangerous monster wave he'd ever seen, when his door really _did_ rattle. Someone with, like, _zero_ patience knocked so hard they about bashed through. Turned out to be Chris, looking weird and distorted through the peephole.

"Alan, get up! It's 6:45!"

Even on Saturdays, Wharton students were up with the frickin' dawn. Part of that whole 'discipline and responsibility' thing that they cherished so much.

Alan opened the door a crack.

"Chillax, dude!" he yawned, scratching at his chest and stomach. "It's fluid."

_"Fluid?"_ Chris repeated uncertainly. He was, like, from New York City and sadly without comprehension.

"Yeah," Alan explained. "You know… 'All good'. 'Easy-peasey, lemon-squeezy'."

"Aqui se habla English!" Chris snorted, heading back across the hall to his own room (but filing 'fluid' away for future reference).

Once the older boy had left, Alan seriously considered returning to bed. Probably, his brothers were out on a rescue or fast asleep; maybe hiding their heads beneath their pillows, if the tropical moon-glow got a little too intense for them. _Losers._

…Except for Gordon, who (biggest loser of all) was probably out there in Spain autographing hot girls' bras and bikini bottoms, while they were still _wearing_ them. Totally, completely not fair.

But, like it or not, he was awake now, so Alan went ahead and got dressed, stumbled to the nearest restroom, washed up and prepared to join the mass breakfast-migration. At least he had something to put on; snappy, black and red Wharton-wear courtesy of a runner from the campus store. It wasn't much to look at. The pants were okay and his new black windbreaker kept the morning chill at bay, but Alan turned the tee-shirt inside out, because there was no _possible_ way he was walking around with a cartoon patriot on his chest. Not just no, but _heck_ no. (Anyway, though, he had his own sneakers.)

Once all the morning stuff was done, and he'd smoothed out the bed covers, Alan left his room again to join Chris Springfield and Cody Briggs in the corridor.

"Nothing like that ol' school spirit, is there, Alan?" Chris teased good-naturedly. "Joining the pep squad, I take it?"

"No, stupid," Alan shot back. "I've registered for the Late-Homework-Society."

"Sorry," Springfield told him. "I'm the society captain, and _I_ say you're not good enough."

His chest swelling and voice deepening to Case-like proportions, Chris concluded grandly, "Dishonor such as you crave must be _earned, _young Jedi!"

Cody shook his red head as the three of them clattered their way down a musty-smelling staircase.

"What he means is: unless _your_ dad's willing to bankroll a new gymnasium, too, there's no way you could miss as many assignments as Springfield does and stay in school. What's the count so far, Chris?"

Springfield grinned. Holding open one of Carnegie Hall's double doors, he bowed his friends through to the frosty outside.

"Twelve late papers and two lost midterms," the brown-haired teen admitted. "…but a few of them carried over from last semester, and Boye really _did_ whiz on my notebook, so I can't claim total credit."

Alan halted in mid-threshold. Gazing at Chris with genuine awe, he whispered,

"Master!"

There was a little more horsing around, then; Alan learning with each swift round how to hold his own and even score points. _Cool._

They smelled breakfast _way_ before entering Stanton Hall. The mingled scents of pork sausage, French toast and creamy shirred eggs fairly yanked them across the chilly quad. Alan's stomach rumbled painfully, but he ignored it long enough to greet Boye, who'd loped up to say hello. Big, muddy paws on his shoulders and a face full of dog breath really got the morning started right, y'know?

"Hey, fella… yeah… glad to see you too… really. _Dang_, you stink! Scout never smells like this!" Laughing, he pushed the wolfhound off, saying, "Go on! Go back and play with the road-kill. I'll save you something from breakfast."

Boye yipped. He bounded (woofing loudly) around Chris and Cody, then sped off for the woods, all long legs and streaming grey fur. Alan made a big show of brushing the dirt from his jacket and pants, but really he was sort of glad to see another friend. Even a smelly one.

Once at Stanton Hall, Alan, Chris and Cody joined the lemming-stream of hungry students pouring up the stairs. Following the crowd, they turned left into a stone-flagged dining chamber enlivened with banners of the thirteen colonies and rows of tall windows.

Chris and Cody usually sat at the very back of table seven, beneath the Delaware banner and as far away from the teachers' table as they could get. Everyone apparently knew and respected Springfield's reserved seating, because all that he had to do was stare at another kid to free up a third spot for Alan. _Impressive._

There was water, china and sparkling silverware already in place, but the entire student body had to quiet down for prayers, before they got a chance to eat. Only after Case ceased ordering God around and said his final, thunderous _'Amen'_ was the food and juice wheeled out; big, copious bowls, trays and pitchers of it. A good thing, too, because Alan was about to salt and devour his linen napkin. Kinda funny, how hungry a night of polishing furniture, losing your luggage and moving into a haunted dorm could make you.

Between wolfed-down mouthfuls of egg, toast and sausage, Alan waved over at Fermat. This time, his young friend sat across the dining hall with the underclassmen, much too far away for conversation. Just as well, probably.

"So…" Chris asked, while helping himself to more eggs. "What d'you think of the place now? Still Alcatraz-east?"

Alan shrugged (because he couldn't talk around all of that syrupy-sweet toast). Swallowing hastily, he said,

"Eh… You know. It was either this, or Slack-Jaw, Wyoming. Guess I could hang here, for awhile."

Cody looked wistful. He was from the Midwest, himself, but even Wyoming was closer to home than _this_ place.

"You don't think somewhere more… I dunno… _normal_ would be nice?" he suggested, hopefully.

Alan rolled his eyes.

"Sorry, dude, _no._ I'm from California. Normal isn't even, like, on the horizon. I've been to Wyoming a couple of times, for visits and junk, and they're all, like, _'Welcome to Bone-Dry Senior High, home of the fighting Dust Devils! And here's our way-hot and desiccated cheerleading squad, the Mummy Dolls!'_ As if! Know what they do for fun around there?"

Chris set his empty juice tumbler down, placing it precisely back onto the previous wet ring stain.

"Enlighten us, Alan," he sighed. "Just what do they do for fun in Slack-Jaw, Wyoming?"

_"Nothing_. Not one dang thing."

Leaning slightly toward Cody, Chris murmured, CEO-fashion,

"Scratch Wyoming off the new-product promo tour, Briggs. Thank you."

Then, grinning again, he added,

"This brings up the day's truly vital question: namely, what're we going to do next? Movies? Swimming? Horseback riding? I'd suggest girl-hunting, but the only women on campus today are going to be janitors or cafeteria staff, and the moustache-and-hairnet crowd does nothing for me. Gentlemen, ideas?"

Alan peered doubtfully through a fogged-over window.

"Okay… it's, like, arctic-blast, sub-zero-freezer-chill _cold_ out there, dude! You want to go swimming in _that?"_

Springfield sighed. Without looking at Cody, he snapped his fingers, indicated Alan and said,

"Explain."

"The pool's indoors, Alan. It's heated. Otherwise, we'd only be able to swim three months out of the year," Cody told him. Nice guy, Briggs; he didn't even have that _'you idiot'_ sound in his voice. _Still…_

"Sorry, I'm just not used to cold weather. On my father's private island, we have _two_ pools, and they're both outdoors… plus all those miles of beach. I still have to learn how people do things, y'know, over _here."_

Cody reddened (causing his freckles to fade). Chris just laughed, though, saying,

"Oooh, _burn._ I don't even have a comeback for that one. I'll have to tell my old man to rush out and buy Australia, or something. Then I'll be able to say: _Ha! My island's bigger than yours_!"

Nothing seemed to trouble Chris Springfield, not even losing an argument. He had a wealthy heir-apparent's complete and utter cool; something Alan very much wanted to learn.

After breakfast, Alan begged off going shopping with Fermat and the kiddy-crew. The movie that morning was _Space: 2099,_ and since Chris and Cody had decided to see it, Alan naturally meant to do the same. He put in a hasty request for lots of cherry soda and nacho chips, then ruffled Fermat's hair and went off with his new friends, calling…

"See ya!" to his disappointed old one.

The movie was kind of lame. The real Moon Station was nothing like _that_ one. Smaller, for instance, and not so firmly packed with insanely hot females. Those skin-tight, curve-hugging spacesuits were a nifty idea, though, and the caramel popcorn was pretty good.

Things picked up afterward, because they went swimming; nearly always a plus. Wharton's pool turned out to be Olympic-sized, housed in a big stone building with plenty of wide skylights. They had a sauna, too, and some kind of weird "race outside buck-naked and roll in the snow" tradition. _Sure thing.._. _Maybe_ _later_.

Alan had to pick up a pair of red-and-black swimming trunks at the campus store, but the rest of the hour was pure fun. With new friends, almost as good as surfing or snowboarding. Chris (ha!) wasn't all that great a swimmer, but Cody darted through the water like a dang eel, winning each race, even when the others got a long head start. He and Gordon ought to meet, Alan decided, already planning how he'd invite his brother to Wharton (and let's see Springfield pull an Olympic gold medalist out of _his_ pocket!).

When they'd had as much water as the other two could stand, Chris invited Alan to the stables to see his horse. Sounded okay, since Alan still hoped to have his sentence commuted from a lifetime of polishing furniture to a few weeks' stall-mucking. Figured he ought to check the place out before committing himself, though. Might be, like, _gross._

The stables and paddock were off to one side of campus, well out of human smell and hearing range. There was a stand of gnarled apple trees nearby, and a small, rushing creek. The boys walked about fifteen minutes to reach the building, which was long and low, constructed of warm, amber-colored limestone, and reputedly featured a well-aged, resident groom. The stall dividers were teak, and heavily padded with cushioning leather.

Curious horses craned their slender heads around as soon as Alan and the others walked in. All down the row, he saw pricked, swiveling ears and wide-flaring nostrils; heard horsey-grumbles, clattering hooves and welcoming neighs. It even smelled good, in that sweet feed-and-big-animal way. Alan found himself smiling, and unconsciously picked up his pace. Naw… he wouldn't mind helping out, here. Not a darn bit.

The stone floors were covered in golden straw, cleaned regularly by a small army of service-bots. The horses seemed to like their robot companions, which went about emitting soothing noises and dispensed the occasional alfalfa treat. They liked Boye, too, though he wasn't there at the moment.

At first, Alan thought that Chris had a _regular_ horse, with a normal name, but _noooo…._ Captain One-Up had to have a dang thoroughbred; a tall bay gelding called "John Wayne's Ghost". But Springfield usually just called him "Wayne".

"He's supposed to be a racehorse," Chris admitted, reaching up to stroke the gelding's long head, "but he didn't have the heart to really run. Never even placed, did you, Wayne-the-pain?"

The horse snorted, pushing upward against his boy's caressing hand.

"Anyway, dad said I could keep him. He's a descendant of Man O' War. Wayne, not my dad."

"Yeah?" Alan scoffed. "Well, _I've_ got the surfboard that King Kamehameha paddled out on to attack the HMX Bounty."

Chris paused in mid horse-nuzzle.

"Really?" he asked.

"No…" Alan laughed, "But it sure sounded good. You guys planning to stand around talking forever, or ride?"

The prodding motivated Chris and Cody. While Springfield headed off to fetch his _personal_ tack and saddle, Alan followed Briggs to hunt up the head groom, Mr. Hardy. His office was at the rear of the stables, down a very long row of occupied stalls, Alan wanted to stop and visit with each horse on the way, but Cody jerked him onward, because he had to get registered if he wanted to ride without escort.

"You ride English-style?" the redhead asked him, as they threaded a path to the groom's office amid breeping service bots and curious, out-thrust heads.

"You mean fancy? With tight pants, a beanie and the horse's hair done up in curlers?" Alan shook his head. "Sorry, _no."_

"Don't that look stupid, though?" Cody agreed happily. "The hardest thing to get used to was those tiny, little saddles! I…"

Their conversation died in mid-sentence, because all at once the horses began acting weird; snorting and stamping like they were scared, or something. Alan stopped walking. Nearest him was a dappled-grey Arabian mare with huge, liquid-dark eyes. 'Snow Girl', according to the brass nameplate on her stall door. Her ears flicked nervously this way and that, and her nostrils flared almost big enough to get your hand into.

Snow Girl snuffed the air, grumbled and stamped, jerking her delicate head away when Alan tried to soothe her. In the spot beside hers, a muscular buckskin called Iron Man began kicking the back of his stall. Somebody whinnied, bugling like a warhorse, and someone else picked it up. The noise was thunderous; deafening.

"Umm… hey," said Cody, raising his voice as (somewhere off in the distance) Boye started barking. "What's going on?"

Alan turned away from the skittish mare and saw nine or ten service bots whirring toward them from both directions. _Weird_.

"Mr. Hardy…?" the other boy called out, his voice cracking nervously. "Sir, could you turn off the robots, please? Mr. Hardy?"

No response, except louder, closer barking and a chorus of panicked neighs. The outer doors must have been shut, because Alan could hear Boye hurling himself against hard wood, like a canine battering ram. Meanwhile, the service robots were rolling nearer.

_Whoa._ This was getting, like, serious and stuff.

Alan reached for his wrist comm, then stopped, because he'd have felt really stupid calling the whole clan out for some kind of dumb robot glitch.

"Mr. Hardy!" Briggs called again, louder than ever. Not that anyone more than five feet away could have heard him over all of that dog-and-horse racket.

The wheeled service bots looked like upended wastebaskets fitted with push-broom, grasper and scoop attachments, and they stood only four feet high. They were quick, though, and surprisingly powerful. Five of them got between Alan and Cody, forcing the boys apart.

Cody was driven backward, in the direction of those wolfhound-rattled doors. Alan they surrounded. The boys tried instinctively to reach one another, attempting to slip past the robots and close ranks, but the mechanized stable hands wouldn't allow it. One of them extruded a cattle prod from its dark plastic carapace and zapped Cody. The older boy yelped, but stood his ground, refusing to be pushed any further.

Alan had once almost earned his yellow belt at Tae Kwon Do. Now, he struck his best super-cool ninja pose and tried kicking one of the service bots.

"Heee-_yah!"_ he shouted, just like in the movies. Was hurled backward and landed on his butt, too, because of:

A. the burning electric shock

And…

2. A badly sprained foot

Knocked sprawling, Alan rocked back and forth on straw-littered stone, massaging his right ankle and refusing to cry.

_'Oh, man… oh, man… dang it… owwww!'_

"Alan, you okay?" Briggs asked him, sounding kind of desperate.

"Yeah… just… think I might've broken my foot."

Like, it really, seriously _hurt,_ okay? Way-bad.

Cody tried lunging past one of the robots to reach his fallen friend. This time, he was flash-shocked hard enough to brown him out for a few seconds. Stunned, he kept himself off the floor by clinging to Iron Man's stall door. Alan shouted,

"Cody, get out of here! Listen to me, man… wake up and go for help. Get Case, or somebody, _hurry!"_

But Briggs was as stubborn as he was disoriented. He got to his feet and grabbed a handful of straw; meaning, Alan guessed, to distract the robots with a storm of flying hay. Then, they saw Springfield.

At first, Alan thought that Chris was crawling down the stall-row toward them, because his friend was moving low and fast; sort of jerking along the ground like a worm. Then he noticed that Springfield's head lolled and bounced uncontrollably as he went, and that his jacket was bunched up in the back, causing his arms to splay.

Chris wasn't crawling; he was being dragged, by something Alan couldn't see. The horses were frantic, Cody and Alan pretty close to the same. They heard glass break as Boye found a window big enough to leap through. The groom's office, probably.

Whatever-it-was dropped Chris. Squinting hard, Alan could just make out a shape, an area of wavery, shifting background about the size of a man. Then the ghostly distortion started forward again, terrifying the horses into a white-eyed, ears-back, plunging and screaming frenzy.

"Cody, _run!"_ Alan shouted, reaching for his forgotten wrist comm. Throwing straw was going to be, like, worthless. Briggs stared at Chris and then Alan, wide-eyed and mouth working. He wouldn't budge, though; not even when the robots parted to let that heavy-treading shadow on through.

Cody shook his head, _no;_ too brave for some freckled guy from Bottom-of-the-Barrel, Iowa. But even without the hay, he managed to distract their invisible attacker, who spoke suddenly, saying,

"Good advice, kid. I'd take it. You don't get in the way, you live. Otherwise, the body count-to-capture ratio gets unfavorable, real quick. Make a decision, red; I've got places to be."

Boye, apparently trapped by the office door, had begun to howl. More distraction. Alan screwed up his courage and activated his wrist comm's general alarm, shouting,

_"Guys, anybody… help! I'm at the stables! It's Alan, Chris and…"_

No good. The same shock that burned out his wrist comm ended Alan Tracy's terrified plea.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_New Mexico__, in Goliath's crew living area-_

The important thing was, even before the alarm went off, he'd held her away from him. Wasn't sure what to _say,_ exactly… but knew that he didn't want to lose what he might have with Dr. Bennett. Then his wrist comm went off, in general alarm mode. Alan's voice… with barking dogs, horse screams and heavy static… issued forth.

_"Guys, any… elp! I'm at… stables! … me, Chris…" _

John shoved Penelope aside, thinking:

A. _Who the hell's Chris? _

And…

B. _Great. Dumbass is back to spooking horses, again. Probably got bitten._

Tapping the comm face he replied calmly,

"Say again, please, Alan: what's the major malfunction?"

Nothing. No reply but a brief, sharp buzz. John frowned a little, reset his comm and tried again.

"Alan? It's me. Restate your situation, please."

And again, no reply. Penny was looking at him, big-eyed and tough to read. He glanced her way for a second, but she wasn't talking, either. _Sure. Why not? Let's everybody stone-wall, and make John's day more interesting; like rolling mountains, or kicking dead whales down the beach._

Giving up on Alan, John stepped slightly away from Penelope, and tried Scott.

"Hey," he said, when his brother's image appeared on the little comm screen, "Did you just get an alert from Alan?"

Scott nodded tightly. John could see half of his father's face, just to the left.

_"Yes, we did. It looks like a kidnap or robbery attempt. There have been three separate 911 calls from the Wharton stables, all interrupted. Police and fire-rescue units are responding, but…"_

The image shifted, abruptly, to Jeff Tracy. John's insides tightened. His gaze drifted down and sideways. Standing there in the spaceship's tiny head, he listened, though.

_"Son, you're the only prime operative available. I need you to drop what you're doing and get to New York. I… hold on… I've got a call coming through, on my personal line."_

Scott's image returned for awhile, causing the hard angles and icy planes of John's interior to shift around, again.

"Hey, um… how's the family?" he asked his brother, because certain concerns refused to stay buried.

Scott hesitated, but a voice somewhere off behind him said,

_"He means us."_

Once again, the view shifted. First to Pete McCord, who gave him a quick half-salute, then to Linda and the baby. Roger and Cho were back in a corner, not so far off-camera as they apparently supposed.

"Hey," John said, giving his wife the usual, all-purpose greeting. "How's it going?"

_"Hey yourself, sunshine. We're off the Moon, in one piece, so… As well as can be expected, I guess. You?" _

She seemed to be looking sideways. Unbeknownst to John, Penny had arranged to place herself within pick-up range. She was stretching as languorously as a cat and playing with her long hair; a deliberate, dreamy smile on her makeup-less face.

_"Pretty good, obviously,"_ Linda snapped. That was confusing because, _no,_ he wasn't good. His head hurt and Earth gravity was still squeezing him like a sponge.

But Janie reached toward the screen with both out-flung arms.

_"Daddy, you's okay? You didn't be bad, did you, Daddy! Tell mommy_ _you didn't be bad." _

Umm… there really wasn't time for all this…

"Depends on how you look at it. I'm not a great person, but I'm trying to do better. How's that?"

_"Good! You love us, right, Daddy? Daddies always love mommies and little girls, right? And they don't never, ever be bad!" _

"Yeah." That was a pretty accurate statement of his new outlook. Just before the image switched back to his father, John said, "You two take care. All of you, actually. Things are getting rough and no-one's expendable, at this point."

His left wrist burned suddenly. Five, damn it; disobeying programmed commands to leap across on the comm signal. John had no chance to deal with the matter, because all at once his father was back, with a deeply furrowed forehead and jammed-together grey eyebrows.

_"John… I've just been contacted by an agent of the Red Path. They've snatched Alan and Jim Springfield's boy…even seemed to think they had you. The bottom line is, they know who we are, and they've got hostages. Listen carefully, John: you are the only prime operative I have available at this time. I have to… I can't interrupt the mission of International Rescue just to save Alan. This cure has to reach the CDC. So… no choice… I need you to intercept and rescue Alan and the other boy. Understood?"_

Parker had arrived by now, doffing his cap as he bowed himself into the cramped head. With half his attention, John heard Penelope whisper,

"About bloody time! There is a 'package' in the cockpit that requires disposal. See to it at once, please, Parker. You've brought another cosmetics case…? Lovely man! Well done!"

John ceased attending to her face-paint babble, and gave his father a short nod.

"Yes, sir. I'll get on it, immediately."

Beneath the bandage, John could feel his cut healing closed. Five had gotten right to work, it seemed, burning the last of Penny's drugs from his system as she repaired damage and shored up fatigue. Meanwhile, his father said,

_"Lady Penelope's still with you? Excellent. Follow her lead, son, and be careful. Until we've got Alan and the other boy back, and these viruses delivered to Atlanta, the scenario remains explosively dangerous." _

"Understood." John signed numbly off, feeling somehow less sure of himself. Penelope's hand at the side of his face, her sudden, soft voice broke the ice.

"Come, darling. We must hasten, if we're to catch Stirling."

_Stirling?_

He frowned at the beautiful woman who stood there gazing at him, halfway-painted and familiar as part of his own body. You didn't lightly forget sleeping with someone; spending long nights twined together and whispering. Just because you'd changed your mind and gotten married, that stuff didn't go away.

"You _know_ the kidnapper?" he asked, quietly.

Penny straightened and her expression changed; mouth tighter, blue eyes a little narrow.

"I have worked with Stirling in times past (both pre and post enhancement) and retain a certain slight fondness for him. Nothing touching the affection I feel for _you,_ of course, but there it is, nevertheless. The matter is personal and very much closed… except for this: do what you must to stop him and save those boys, but do _not _kill their abductor. In return, I will provide whatever you require in the way of support and transportation. Have we an understanding, dearest?"

John felt cut loose and spinning. He wasn't sure what to think… how to react… so he shoved the whole tangled shit-load of emotion away.

"Yeah. Rescue the boys, spare the kidnapper. Got it."

He was pretty much the last piece on the chess board, and it was time to make a move.


	24. 24: Friends and Relations

**24: Friends and Relations**

_Thunderbird 3, the 'lounge'-_

Once their conversation with John had ended, the Ares crew left for Thunderbird 3's passenger hold, while rescue pilots Jeff and Scott Tracy got back to flying their ship. Surprisingly, there was gravity here, cycled back to be weaker than the Moon's, for International Rescue was doing all in its power to keep the astronauts well and safe.

As she settled onto a couch in the lounge and Pete began foraging supplies, Doctor Bennett cuddled her small daughter and tried very hard not to cry.

_'Just nerves,'_ she assured herself, _'stress and hypertension brought on by fatigue and exertion. You'll get over it, once your cortisol levels start to drop.'_

All lies, of course. Linda's shaking hands, her headache and rapid pulse weren't being caused by exhaustion; nor were all those unshed tears the result of stress. At least, not _survival_ stress.

Kim Cho had come to sit beside her, bringing a plastic tub of fresh pineapple that McCord had scrounged from the ship's refrigerator. For something to do besides worry, Linda scooped out and ate a few pieces. Crunchy, sweet-tangy and moist, the fruit nearly overwhelmed her space-food accustomed senses, but it was good. Cho enjoyed the marvelous stuff, too, but Janie wrinkled her small nose and pushed it away.

Sighing, Linda handed the girl over.

"Here," she whispered to Cho. "See if you can't get her to eat something besides cereal and protein strips."

Kim Cho accepted Janie; a fond, warm smile on her normally serious face.

"Oh, Linda, how unfortunate you are," she sing-songed, kissing the little one's head and hands, "to have such an ugly and disagreeable child. And female, too! How terribly you've been cursed!"

That Cho meant precisely the opposite, and was in fact shielding her friend from the implacable jealousy of fate, everyone present understood. Linda managed a half-smile and weak little nod. As Kara Jane fell into a troubled sleep, gently rocked by her auntie, Doctor Bennett said,

"Cho, do you think that he…?"

The exobiologist shook her head.

"No, Linda. I do not. John is your husband, and he will not, I think, be lured away from his wife and small baby… though some might wish you to believe otherwise."

Cho dropped a few soft kisses on the tired child's forehead, then added,

"It is said that once the house has burned down, you should pick up the nails, but I do not think there is fire yet, much less total loss. Be patient, my friend, and trust that he loves you."

Linda gulped air; half sob, half deep, steadying breath. She smiled again, when Roger came over with a bag of chocolate drops and a kiss for Cho.

The Marine sensed Linda's unhappiness. (A slime mold would probably have picked up on it.)

"Bad time to butt in?" he inquired, pausing in the act of settling down beside Cho.

"No," Doctor Bennett replied in a muffled, rather sniffly voice.

Roger patted her shoulder (he braced himself against the vibrating bulkhead before reaching out, as nearly three years of weightlessness had left a deep and lasting mark).

"Don't worry, doc," he said. "John won't do anything stupid, because he knows I'll break every twig bone in that scrawny-ass body if he does. I'll be hitting for distance, too, since he's supposed to be my best man and a six-month traction delay's going to put me in an ugly mood."

He meant it. Linda laughed, was swept into a big, friendly and very comforting hug. Only Pete stayed away; perhaps because, having failed this test himself, the mission commander had nothing helpful to offer. All he could do was check out their high-tech conveyance and try to look busy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The Hudson Valley Wal-Mart, by the checkout pylons-_

_"What's going on?"_ she'd asked, but the resulting din was impossible to unravel. Everyone… Sam, Daniel and Fermat… talked at once, driving Myrna Bremmerman halfway to madness and hair loss.

"All right, _stop!_ Fermat, keep inhaling. Sam, in a moderate tone and sequentially, including just the _relevant_ details: tell me what's happened to Alan and his friend."

"Yes, ma'am," the youngest boy replied gravely, bowing a little. "What I know is this: we were over at the game area, watching Daniel defeat the RoboWars demo, when Fermat's watch alarm went off. I thought our time in the store was up, but that wasn't it, because the watch transmitted a disturbing message from Alan, indicating that he was at the stables with Chris and in need of assistance."

"I _told_ you he should have come with us!" Daniel Solomon cut in, sounding more triumphant than worried. "Seriously, Dr. B... Springfield is _nothing_ but trouble. All the time, he starts stuff and lets everyone else take the fall for it; untouchable, Teflon, too-cool-for-school Springfield. If you ask _me,_ Alan's been caught up in…"

"Sh- shut up… Daniel," Fermat wheezed, straightening to glare at his shame-faced friend. "This isn't… a j- joke, or some kind of… stupid prank. Alan wouldn't c- call for help like that… unless h- he was in… real t- trouble. Mom, we've g- got to…"

But Myrna shook her pony-tailed head.

"No, Ferms. _We_ don't have to do anything but call the school and your father."

Brains' wife was already fishing an iPhone out of her blue nylon fanny pack. She was well aware of the Tracy family's dangerous secret, didn't like it, and didn't want Fermat involved.

"Whatever's going on over there," (Myrna was willing to bet that it had something to do with IR and that European Space-flu) "is better left to professionals than a lot of half-grown boys and one out of shape physicist. I… yes, _hello?_ Myrna Bremmerman for Dr. Case, please. Yes, I'll hold."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, San Marco Island, the South Pacific-_

TinTin shot bolt upright in her seat, ending a brief and uncomfortable nap. She'd felt a surge of raw, blinding panic from Alan, just before getting his wrist comm alert. He was in desperate trouble, the girl sensed. TinTin fought to calm her own heart rate and breathing, which had begun racing in sympathy with Alan's. She scarcely heard his garbled message, muffled as it was by her suit and his transmitted fear. But inside her head, horses screamed. A red-haired boy clutched at a stall door and refused to run, though s/he (Alan) urged him to go. A dog howled, battering itself bloody against glass and splintering wood. Then darkness severed their contact; the dense, grainy black of unconsciousness, fortunately, not the absolute silence of death.

But… he was at Wharton, her so-troublesome friend, and therefore perfectly safe. In a place so hidden away and well-guarded that even _presidents_ placed their sons there, what misfortune could possibly have befallen him? A maddened horse, perhaps?

TinTin scrambled upright, awkward and slow in her bulky survival suit. A quick glance and touch assured her that Virgil and Gordon yet lived. They were her first responsibility, after all; assigned by Monsieur Tracy, himself.

"Rest and recover, mes braves, mes couers," she told the slowly failing young men. "All is well, I promise you."

Virgil Tracy stirred a bit at her touch, but Gordon did not move. Wishing that rubberized polymer did not have to stand in for human contact, TinTin reached forth a gloved hand and stroked the damp auburn hair from his forehead.

"Hold firm but a little longer, Gordon. Help speeds to you from Scott and your honored father."

There was only the slimmest sense of him within that fever-wracked shell, the faintest spark of her strong, laughing friend. Nevertheless, at her thought-spoken words, Gordon's vital signs up-ticked once more. He'd heard her, and (like his brother) was fighting, still. _Bon._ No more could she ask.

Uttering prayers to Saints Francis, Luke and Raphael, TinTin turned away from her friends and hurried for the cockpit. On her way, she tried using a wall comm and population-satellite to locate Alan's ID chip, but found no signal. The chip had either been burnt out or cut from him, and neither was a positive sign. Nor would his wrist comm respond.

Distinctly uneasy, now, TinTin closed the 'People Search' application and continued forward, climbing a bulkhead ladder from rear crew cabin to cockpit. Once before, Alan had been abducted, though accidentally so; the kidnappers had in fact aimed their strike for Gordon, a famous Olympic athlete. Poor Alan had simply been caught in the same net. Then, too, the victims' ID chips had proven useless. Perhaps International Rescue might design something more reliable?

Her engineer's mind buzzing, TinTin Kyrano opened Thunderbird 2's rear cockpit hatch, just as Doctor Hackenbacker was about to start through.

"Monsieur…"

"T- TinTin…"

They both began at once. Then, once more talking over one another,

"Did, ah… did you g- get…"

"Have you received the…"

Brains sighed, holding up a gloved hand.

"Y- You first," he told the girl.

Blushing, TinTin dropped her gaze and nodded. It was unseemly for a young woman of good breeding to speak before her elders, but _il prof_ had given his permission, so,

"Monsieur, have you also received the alarm call from Alain? He has become…"

_Unconscious,_ she'd wanted to say, but did not know how to do so without giving away the terrible secret of her 'power'.

"He has fallen into danger, I fear, Doctor Hackenbacker."

Brains nodded, his thin face quite grey behind the survival suit's faceplate.

"You, ah… you f- fear correctly, TinTin. Alan and one of his, ah… his school f- friends have been abducted from campus. The Red Path is, ah… is claiming r- responsibility, and they've c- contacted Mr. Tracy, demanding that, ah… that International Rescue cease and d- desist all efforts to, ah… to bring that b- bacteriophage cargo to the CDC."

TinTin's beautiful dark eyes widened, filling with sudden shock.

"Monsieur Tracy has been spoken to personally… about _International_ _Rescue_? But…"

"Precisely."

Brains had never looked paler.

"Th- they know who he is and, ah… and h- how he's involved with the Thunderbirds. If Thunderbird 3 completes her, ah… her mission, Alan and his friend w- will be killed."

TinTin shook her head disbelievingly, real panic beginning to claw at her insides.

"How did terrorists come to learn of this, monsieur? Surely, we let nothing slip!"

"N- No, _we_ didn't, TinTin. Someone else did. My, ah… my guess w- would be that Alan and this Springfield boy were already t- targeted, as heirs to, ah… to s- some of the world's richest men. Probably," Brains continued, twisting his head around inside his helmet in another vain attempt to adjust his glasses,

"…probably th- they would have b- been used for hostages, anyway, but, ah… but then the Tracy/ IR connection came to light, considerably increasing Alan's v- value."

In the pale LED-glow of Thunderbird 2's wide cockpit, TinTin looked stricken. She felt dizzy, as though the deck beneath her was tilting away.

"Then, Thunderbird 3 is to stay away from CDC headquarters in return for Alain's release?"

"I'm, ah… I'm afraid not, TinTin. Everyone is to proceed as, ah… as ordered. John and L- Lady Penelope will attempt to intercept the, ah… the kidnappers and retrieve both hostages b- before they can be killed."

"The two of them, alone?"

John Tracy was an astronaut and computer technician, not a fighter, while Penelope Creighton-Ward was a delicate and noble lady who dabbled in espionage for pocket money. How could such a tiny strike team deal with ruffians and killers? Brains' expression was grim, but his voice firm when he replied,

"I t- trust that my, ah… my protégé will f- find a way to p- pull through and get the, ah… the job done, TinTin. He generally s- seems to manage."

He and John were close friends and collaborators.

"In the, ah… the m- meantime, we are to p- prepare for new patients. The Ares crew will, ah… will b- be dropped off here, w- with us. I'll set up a l- link for Dr. Kim with Pryce over in, ah… in Madrid, while you take and scan samples of the original b- bacteria. Clear?"

"Oui, monsieur. Perfectly."

Almost, TinTin parted with her burden, then; nearly offering to provide a link between John and Alan (once… _if_… the younger Tracy awoke). Again, though, fear stopped her cold. Fear that if seen to be like her dreaded uncle, she would be put forth and rejected.

_'Non. C'est impossible.'_

Still and however, the girl decided (as she bade farewell to _il prof_ and turned to go) she might use her questionable talent on the sly; to heal, to assist or perhaps cause the terrorists to forget what they'd learned of International Rescue. And thus did TinTin Kyrano set a first tentative foot on the path once taken by the Hood.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_New York City, a cold and drizzly helipad in Queens-_

Cindy Taylor had a mission of her own in mind. As time went on, and the Space-flu grew ever more lethal (mutating as it passed from host to host) people were starting to panic. Germany and Switzerland had closed their borders, and no international airport in the world would accept a flight or shipment that had touched down in Spain or France.

Interesting times, in the Chinese-curse sense, and Cindy meant to plug right into the midst of things. Partly for her own career advancement and sense of adventure, yes… but also to help keep the rest of the world informed, through the broadcasting power of WNN.

Sure, there were other reporters in Europe; plenty of them. But Cindy had links to NASA and International Rescue that no one else could match. Tenacious as hell, too; a trait she'd 'inherited' from Bart and Marcy Taylor.

As the 'Red Cross' helijet descended through a patch of grey, building-rimmed sky, Cindy recalled another time. Many years before, she'd looked up to see a warm, kind face bending low over the crib where she lay covered in filth and sores. Her rescuer, Bart. Just behind him, a thin blonde woman had said, handkerchief pressed to her nose,

_'Poor thing… poor, sweet little thing. Bart, look_ _at those eyes. She needs us!'_

She hadn't understood the words, then, not having learned to speak her own language, much less English. Marcy had filled them in, later. The tone had come through, though, and the gentleness with which Bart's hands had lifted a dirty, sick little orphan and cuddled her to his chest.

Cindy lost some of her chill, hearing the Marcy of memory say,

_'This one. We'll take this one, Mr. Hamazi.'_

John Tracy had suggested that she consider adopting an older child. For the first time, Cindy wondered whether she… and Scott… should take that advice. Later, maybe; when all this was over and NASA off the hook for starting an epidemic. Meanwhile, she had things to do and places to be, starting with Madrid.

The white and red helijet landed in a noisy whirlwind of shrieking engines and hissing, wide-flung rain. A side door opened, and Cindy rushed from her partly-roofed shelter, head down and blinking furiously. She had about fifty feet of wet concrete to cross, all the while hunching protectively over her auto-cam and laptop. (There was a laminated yellow sticky note still inside the thing, reading: _I have your laptop- JMT._ Long story.)

Once she reached the whining aircraft, Cindy took hold of a proffered hand, placed her left foot on the landing skid, and climbed within. Moments later, enveloped in warm, fuel-scented dimness beside a group of medically-trained operatives, she was on her way to Spain.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men, New York State-_

While Edward Case fielded phone calls from parents, police and the FBI, Stirling made his way through an old network of steam tunnels. Behind the cyborg floated a grav-cart laden with two unconscious, efficiently bound and gagged kids.

The rat-infested tunnel system was dark, but Stirling could make his own light, and saw by other means when necessary. The cart followed Stirling's signal as _he_ followed the beacon emitted by a locking mechanism at a far-off New York Power and Light station. His escape route (stables to steam tunnels to power station to sewer) was clearly mapped out, though he'd be hard-pressed to reach D.C. in the time allotted. Still, it wasn't as important that he get his marks to Mr. Black as that he keep them hidden, waiting for the command to kill or release.

Stirling was sure of himself and certain of his plan. He was somewhat more (and a great deal less) than human, and he feared nothing that law enforcement or the military could throw at him. As for International Rescue, they were too soft to be worth planning for. Like all the rest of their interfering ilk, they'd get hammered down when the time came; one 'angel of mercy' after another. In the cyborg's mind, they didn't even qualify as a challenge.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_WorldGov temporary headquarters, the Ministry of Health-_

Indira Chatterjee was at her desk, contemplating ruin, solitude and hate. Her vast corner office hardly looked the part of a lair, being a harmonious mixture of Hindu and modern influences, but the place fairly seethed with her frustrated, mounting rage.

So much patient, delicately balanced work, all made hostage to the whims of a madman…

Gold bracelets clashing musically, the Indian woman rose to rearrange a spray of flowers in her favorite brass vase. She was graceful, outwardly calm… and not a bit surprised when her wall comm flashed on, revealing the pinched features of Lyndon Smyth, the vice president's personal secretary.

_"Good evening to you, Madame Chatterjee,"_ said the white-haired man, not bothering with a smile. _"Lady Murasaki has received recent, unexpected news, and so requests your presence in her office. At once, if you please, madam."_

At just about the same time, over the shrill protests of her own secretarial staff, a team of men burst into the health minister's office and began dismantling her computers. Added Mr. Smyth, nodding in the men's general direction,

_"Your hard drives and cell phone records will be required as well, madam. Do hurry along. The vice-president awaits you, and her humor this evening is none of the best."_

Just before Murasaki's security team seized her phone and reticule, Indira pressed a certain sequence of keys; all she could safely do. If the message got through, Mr. Black would discover that one of the inner circle had been taken. He'd be forced to act then, for she could not withstand determined interrogation, and her knowledge of the Red Path was as great as her pride.

She did not struggle or attempt to flee. Nor did she suffer those casteless dogs to touch her, but walked in their midst with her head high and her face still. All the way to Lady Murasaki's office she played the role of a noble and dignified Brahman surrounded by sniveling jackals.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The passenger cabin of a highly modified private jet, racing low and fast over the desert-_

Odd, what the return of missing equipment could do for his mood. Penny had somehow contrived to bring along his laptop, without which he'd have been back to square zero. She sat in the leather swivel chair opposite his, while John Tracy sent dozens of messages and set about hunting down a murderous cyborg. He heard/ felt/ saw almost nothing but the backlit computer screen, talking more to himself than Penelope or Parker.

"You've got to be kidding me… how confident _is_ this guy?"

The cyborg appeared to rely on constant, high-speed access to local computers and maintenance machines, which lit up around him like he was some kind of effing god. Long story short, Stirling left a trail through cyberspace like a goddam comet's, and John now knew exactly where to find him; below Wharton and headed rapidly south, with a mechanism moving along behind him that probably held the kidnapped boys. Okay, then… several options for dealing with Robby the Robot:

A. Cut him off. Reconfigure a powerful spectrum analyzer to block all channels.

B. Infect and crash him, somehow. Upload the nastiest, most memory-grabbing virus in the John Tracy arsenal, then sit back and watch the fireworks.

C. Attempt to gain root and then reprogram the metallic bastard to, say, wash cars and make coffee.

_Or_…

D. All of the above, as quickly as possible, and without endangering Alan.

The hard parts would be getting within striking distance unseen, and not accidentally killing the cyborg. On the bright side, though, John had officially reclassified the situation from "oh, shit," to "_now_, what the hell?" (...Life's little blessings, huh?)

He was out of the hardsuit by this time, rather uncomfortably dressed in the expensive business attire Parker had brought along; a dark suit, handmade shirt, grey silk tie and Italian leather shoes. These, with the longish hair and pocketed dark glasses made him look like a Russian mafia thug, but, hey… whatever. It was his concealed weaponry and quantum entity that actually mattered,.

Five's slow burn at his left wrist had continued unabated since early that afternoon, rising to a painful crescendo whenever Penelope came near. Negative conditioning or something. But Penny was talking, again.

"Hmm…?"

"I said," Penelope repeated, very slowly and distinctly, "would you care for a bite to eat, darling? You've done nothing but mutter and type since takeoff."

'_What…? Food? No, thanks; kind of busy.'_

He thought he'd said so aloud, but only grunted impatiently and shook his head, sending a sheet of silver-blond hair into his eyes.

"John dear, I really _must_ insist that you…"

Talking. She kept talking while he was trying to _work, _damn it. John was pretty near asking her to leave, when all at once his ID chip gave a quick, hot pulse and then quieted. Oddly enough, so did Penny.

John looked up, seeing someone else behind Lady Penelope's blue eyes.

_'Interference from Penelope Creighton-Ward shareware neutralized, John Tracy. The analog companion of Five may now complete his task unmolested.'_

Relieved, John relaxed a little.

"Okay. Keep her quiet as long as you can… reprogram and run a pleasant daydream or something… and try not to trash the place. It's better if she doesn't know you're there."

_'Command understood and accepted, John Tracy. Penelope Creighton-Ward shareware is now trapped in a recursive memory loop. It will remain so until released.'_

Handy things to have around, quantum entities.

"Thanks," he said, returning to work. "I was approaching stack overflow."

It never occurred to him to wonder what _sort_ of memory Five was repeatedly forcing Penny to re-live, nor what its effect would be once her ladyship was finally released. John had more important things to worry about, starting with how to non-lethally stop a powerful cyborg, end a plague and save his youngest brother. (Again)


	25. 25: ZeroSum Game

Edited.

**25: Zero-Sum Game**

_Thunderbird 3, approaching Earth-_

While Scott fired 3's braking rockets and altered her approach angle, a very worried Jeff Tracy burned up the comm lines between the Moon Base, D.C., Atlanta, New York and New Mexico. The situation could not have been graver.

He had two sons desperately ill, one in the clutches of a murderous kidnapper, and a fourth completely overmatched by his assignment (and in serious danger because of it). Scott and the Ares crew were with Jeff in Thunderbird 3, meanwhile, trying to deliver a vital care package.

There was a weaponized plague poised to sweep the Earth and a terrorist group attempting to use their knowledge of International Rescue to shut the organization down. Jeff had consumed little more than antacids and coffee for most of the day, being far too busy to eat.

One of the first calls had interrupted his talk with John. It came from a Red Path operative whose ironic, amused voice informed him that two of his sons were in enemy hands, and that International Rescue's leaders… its structure and funding… were no longer secret.

_"Now, I'm sure you'll want them two fine sons of yours back, just like Springfield'll want his,"_ the voice told him. _"So, this is what you're gonna do for me. You listening, Jeff? I can call you Jeff, can't I…? Us being mutually acquainted and all."_

In the cockpit of one of the most advanced spacecraft ever built, over 600 miles away from the surface of Earth, Jeff Tracy's jaw clenched. Beside him, Scott was dangerously quiet; listening.

"I couldn't care less what you call me, or how you think we're connected," Jeff snapped. "All I want is the bottom line. What are you demanding for the safe return of your hostages?"

Hurriedly, he lowered the caller's volume. The Ares crew was talking on another comm, but there was always the chance that someone… his granddaughter, perhaps… might overhear.

The voice at the other end of the line (which Scott, at his father's nod, had begun tracking) actually chuckled. Whoever he was, the bastard seemed to be enjoying himself.

_"Well, that's quite a haul I've scored… an astronaut and two jet-set schoolboys. One of them's your youngest, isn't that right, Jeff? Bet he looks just like his momma. And, oh, my… Christian Springfield's an only child. That'll jack the rates up, know what I mean?"_

Scott reached over and put a steadying hand on his father's near shoulder. Jeff was tensed and furious; he looked like something coiled at the back of a cage, ready to lunge for its tormentor. His narrowed brown eyes flicked momentarily sideways, meeting Scott's blue ones.

"I'm a busy man," he said, tightly. "And I don't believe in wasting time. Tell me what it is you want, or shut the hell up."

_"Not a people person, are you, Jeff? That's okay… neither am I. Bottom line is this right here, pardner: take that load of viruses you think you're delivering, and space it. Yup, I know __all__ about that, courtesy of some mighty big mouths at the CDC. You hear the damndest things over State Department wire taps, lemme tell ya. I know… seems like a shame to waste all that square-jawed heroic effort, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to insist. Get rid or your magic little viruses, or I kill all three of them boys, record every second, and send the tapes along to corporate headquarters with whatever's left of your sons that I can cram in a box. We clear? Jeff…? You hearing me, buddy? 'Cause I'd hate to think I was talking to myself."_

Jeff somehow forced himself to reply. He couldn't see, could hardly breathe, and had his fists clenched so hard that they hurt. But,

"I understand you. What proof do you need that the package has been disposed of, and where and how can I pick up the hostages?"

Another chuckle.

_"Whoa, there, pardner. One thing at a time. Atlanta's being watched, and CDC headquarters, too. Believe me, you try and drop anything off there, I'll know. Just do your little thing out there in space and stay off my Earth for the next 24 hours. After that, we'll talk. You play nice, follow the rules and maybe… just might happen… you'll get Pretty Boy and Jeffy, Jr. back whole, instead of stuffed in a gift box. Keep in touch, compadre. I'll be watching."_

The voice cut off immediately afterward, leaving Jeff to stare blindly ahead, while Scott got up to stalk the confines of the cockpit. Hands shaking slightly, Jeff reconnected with John, still on his wrist comm line.

The Red Path seemed to think they had his astronaut son in custody. That they were wrong was an ace in the hole, or a wildcard, at least. Jeff would have felt a great deal more confident if it had been Scott or Virgil out there hunting down the Red Path leader. John was useful, no doubt… good at tech support, communications and hacking… but he wasn't strong, straightforward or particularly brave. When faced with real trouble, all he did was reach for a computer. Not the ideal man for the job, obviously.

Their conversation was brief; John looking everywhere but at his deeply concerned father, and answering each statement or question with the usual frozen monosyllables. At least Penelope and Parker were there. Between the three of them, the Red Path's kidnapper might yet be intercepted, and the hostages saved.

Next, Jeff received word from Phillip Riley, the Moon Station's commander. After a quick, brilliant surprise attack, Riley and his people had retaken the station, and according to the bloodied commander, they now had fifteen Red Path and WorldGov traitors locked away.

_"Rounded up the lot of them, we did, after a bit of unpleasantness with stun guns and pistols."_

Riley's broad, mustachioed image came through quite clearly. Jeff's, of course, was heavily encrypted; a mere shadow.

"And the med-lab personnel?" he asked wearily.

_"All but one recovered safely from the lunar rover recharge bay,"_ Riley responded, some of the triumph draining from his pale blue eyes. _"It seems that a bio-assay technician attempted to work up a satellite link to Houston, and was shot for his trouble."_

"I'm sorry," Jeff told the white-haired man, whom he'd worked with during his long-ago days with NASA. "I wish we'd gotten wind of the situation earlier, Commander. Had we known what was happening, no one would have died."

It was a thought that troubled him deeply, though Phillip Riley was too grateful for International Rescue's assistance to place blame.

_"You've helped free our astronauts and are headed to Earth with a potential cure for this terrorist-made plague. The least we could do in return is put up a bit of resistance; give a good account of ourselves in defense of the station."_

Paul Crane was equally understanding (if woozier). Jeff reached NASA's director in his FBI-guarded hospital room, where the man lay swathed in bandages and soothed with mild drugs.

"Your people on and off the Moon are safe, Mr. Crane," Jeff told the injured director, who pressed a button to raise the head of his bed. Both of his eyes were bloodshot and bruised, while his shoulder and left arm were encased in breathable flex-casts.

Continued Jeff,

"The Ares crew is headed to safety right now, Sir, and Dr. Kim's virus samples are down in the hold. You can rest easy."

Paul nodded, managing a crooked little smile.

_"Thank you… f' everything… coming to… the subway, too. Nice t'… be here, celebrating safe… return."_

To him, Jeff came through as a blurred silhouette and electronically altered voice that said,

"Our pleasure, Mr. Crane. Rest and mend; the situation is under control."

…or so he very much hoped.

Jeff delayed the fourth call as long as possible, because he genuinely dreaded the thought of facing James Springfield. As it turned out, though, the other CEO had already been contacted.

_"They said that International Rescue or the government might get in touch,"_ Springfield muttered, looking like a man who'd gotten his death-wound. _"I was told that you'd try to use my R&D facilities to churn out a space-flu cure. Some kind of anti-bacterial virus."_

He was a slender man with close-cropped dark hair and green eyes. There was a bottle of scotch open on the desk before him. No glass, though.

Said Jeff,

"Yes, sir. Springfield Pharmaceutical is the only company large enough to mass-produce viruses in the amount that we need. So, I'd like to…"

_"They said they'd kill him," _James cut in, his voice shaking with suppressed grief. _"Mister… I don't have a clue who you are. I don't know if you have any kids of your own… but Chris is all I've got. My marriage is for shit, and the money I'd throw away with both hands if doing so would bring Christian back."_ And he added, suddenly fierce,_ "God damn the day I let her nag me into sending him away!"_

Springfield reached clumsily forward, seized the bottle and took a very long pull of fiery strength. Then, setting it down again with a sharp _thunk_, he demanded savagely,

_"Can you promise me, whoever-you-are, that you'll find Chris before they kill him? That I won't be cutting my boy's throat, doing what you ask?"_

Jeff took a deep breath. He'd golfed with Jim Springfield a time or two, at Augusta and Pebble Beach; attended a Christmas Ball at his estate in the Hamptons.

"No, sir. I can't guarantee the safety of your son,"

…any more than he could swear to the safe return of Alan or John.

"But I can tell you this: if the cure for this plague isn't developed in time, the entire world could be at risk, and I have reason to believe that they mean to kill all three of their hostages, no matter what we do."

Springfield's head bowed. Behind him, through a big picture window, Jeff glimpsed a manicured lawn, huge trees and formal gardens. Fairfield Place.

_"Yeah,"_ the man whispered miserably. _"I figured. So… have you spoken with Jeff Tracy, yet? I understand they got a couple of his boys, too. Tell me how Jeff's holding out."_

Jeff's response was low and heartfelt:

"He's scared shitless, Mr. Springfield, but doing the best he knows how. Just like you and me."

Jim Springfield lifted his head and gave the encrypted shadow before him a long, searching glance. Then, slowly,

_"Okay… I'm in," _he said._ "I'll get the pharm-plants cleared and ready for action, then call in a few favors with Pfizer and Glaxo-Welcome. So... do what you can to save Christian, please. Please. I'll, um… I guess I'll try to save the world."_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_At a decrepit old power station, somewhere in upstate New York-_

All he could see was darkness, even when he opened his eyes. Folded cloth filled his mouth, which seemed to be taped shut. The breath which whistled in quick, panicked gasps from his nose bounced right back, like something was bang in front of his face. A hood, maybe?

His hands were fastened together at the wrist, trapped behind his back and beneath him. Couldn't move his cramped legs, either.

Alan Tracy bit back a shout, wondering where the heck he was and what was happening. Wriggling just a little, he felt himself bump against something… or some_one._ It twitched slightly away, as though equally blind, tied up and weirded-out.

Okay… whatever he was lying on was moving. Smoothly, though; kind of gliding rather than rolling. A grav cart?

Alan wanted to kick, flail, cry out and roll the heck off that grav cart. Roll all the way back to… The stables, that's where he'd been; with Chris Springfield and Cody Briggs. Now he was someplace dark and echoing, that stank really badly like rust, trash and rats.

His wrist comm? Alan felt around, groping at the wrist of his left hand with the numb, bloodless fingers of his right. No joy. The watch was gone, and with it his best link to friends and family. No ID chip, either, he was willing to bet. Just like the last time, when he and Gordon had set off joy-riding and ended up in a fake hospital, the RFID chip was probably frickin' toast.

The unknown person beside him moved sharply, kicking at the side of their cart with a flurry of loud clangs and thuds. Then someone spoke from ahead and above them, and the banging stopped. The voice was the same one he'd heard at Wharton's stables; calm, quiet and cold as an ice-cube tray.

"Both awake now. Good. If you plan to stay that way, quit moving and quiet down. Otherwise, I deliver a pair of corpses and lose a little money. Your decision."

Beside him, Alan felt the other victim grow very still (Chris, most likely… but _dang,_ he hoped Cody had made it out, okay). The youngest Tracy didn't dare communicate with his fellow captive yet. Too risky. But neither did he mean to just lie there and be carted helplessly off.

Back at the stables he'd hit the general alarm, so people were already probably looking for him. Yeah… dad, mom and Gordon… Fermat, TinTin and all of them were on their way, _right now._ Question was, without a chip or wrist comm to track, would they know where to look? And if not, what could he do to break himself and Chris free?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Washington, D.C.-_

Lamar Stennis showed his photo ID badge to a pair of rigid soldiers, and then waved his left hand beneath the chip reader. A tiny light beside the door went from red to green, a chime sounded, and the soldiers let Stennis into an underground pass-through; for most everyone else, an occasional shortcut. For Stennis, his quickest access point. He thanked the two men, who (if all went according to plan) would soon be dead, and then strode on into the tunnel.

There were stairs within, followed by a network of branching passages that led to the Capitol, the Senate, Congress and the Washington Monument. Stennis took none of these, proceeding straight along the main tunnel, as though he meant to visit the Pentagon. Didn't go there, though.

Instead, just past a unisex restroom he found and opened a certain door marked: Radiation-Proof Bomb Shelter: Long-Term Living Facility and walked right through. His security clearance being what it was, nobody questioned the senator's right to poke around, below. Oh, they might have raised an eyebrow if he'd brought along a young intern, or someone's "hot" secretary, but Lamar Stennis was known to one and all as an absolute straight-arrow; hard-working and honest clean through. They even joked about his penchant for long walks and solitude, never understanding the man they thought they'd befriended. Well, like the soldiers outside, the 'friends' would be seen to, soon enough.

Stennis traversed the bomb shelter's cobweb of tunnels, passing cold storage rooms containing everything from food and medical supplies to office equipment, his footfalls raising a chorus of blended echoes.

Eventually, he came to a high-ceilinged central hub; one decked out with sun-like LEDs and banks of potted plants. There, Vicente Vargas awaited him. Slim, short and dark, the Peruvian assassin was the only person he trusted, and the closest thing that Stennis had to a real confidante.

Vargas was putting away his cell phone when the senator arrived, having apparently just received a much-relayed message. Could have been anything, but his face and manner were utterly bland when Vargas bowed and said,

"Bienvenido, senor. The transport of your 'guests' has been arranged, and a place prepared for them. If you would care to follow, senor, I would be most pleased to show you the holding area."

Stennis rubbed his hands together, briefly, feeling as tip-toe alert as a prowling cat.

"10-4, compadre. Lead the way."

'Mr. Black' nodded graciously, then turned and started walking. At first, the senator was all attention. The way was long, however, and Stennis' mind began to drift a bit. Soon, his hostages would be securely in place; the interrogation that Genovese had begun, turned over to other (more competent) hands. No, Stennis had no doubt whatsoever that Pretty Boy would soon have his daddy's secrets cut right out of him, and that International Rescue would fall like an axed tree. Next to go would be the parasitic world government and excess population, all because one man had dreamt of freedom and purity.

Stennis was deep in his reverie when they came to a door labeled '327' and Vargas said,

"Within, if you please, senor."

Lamar hated to shake off his visions of clean, strong villagers to have a look around, but made himself do it, anyhow. Vargas worked hard, and deserved the occasional 'attaboy'.

Attending to his surroundings, Stennis found himself in a small room, comfortably furnished with a vinyl couch, phone, table and food locker. One wall was dominated by a half-silvered mirror, behind which he glimpsed a darkly stained concrete interrogation room. Floor drain, padded table; the usual.

Well, well, well…. Dinner _and_ a show.

What happened next was fast and unexpected, no warning given. Stennis was seized by the hair, his head suddenly jerked forward and a very slim knife blade thrust hard into the base of his skull. But, no; Vargas had always…

His last sight was of spinning fluorescent panels and a mournful, dark face. The last words he heard a fading,

_"I am truly sorry, senor…"_


	26. 26: Core Dump

Edited.

**26: Core Dump**

_San Marcos, Thunderbird 2, the rear crew cabin-_

Even half-conscious, he recognized that comforting background hum, the peculiar combination of scents and vibrations that signaled Thunderbird 2. Home.

He was a strong young man, and sound of body; in good general health, before a violent, system-wide infection had completely overwhelmed his defenses. Hadn't played football in years, but retained an athlete's firm build and energy level. Also, he was stubborn, and very much wanted to live.

These factors, together with an emergency smart-patch and its medical nanobots, combined to save Virgil Edward Tracy from death. Sometime around 3 AM he turned the corner physically, as a self-assembling horde of nanobots beat back the invading bacteria and mopped up their toxin. Somewhen near 4:30, he began to regain consciousness. No big deal, really, as the best he could come up with was,

_'I like horses and cream cheese.'_

Didn't make any sense, so Virgil drifted off to wake up and try again, later. His second effort, as the universe began putting itself on like a warm coat, was,

_'Damn, that hurts. Guess I must've crash-landed.'_

Except… he'd been sick, hadn't he? Or, Gordon had. It was the thought of his kid brother… sick unto death, alone and scared… that finally pried the lid from Virgil's gummy awareness, and propelled him most of the way out of bed.

Nausea and a half-full IV bag temporarily stopped him, but Virgil mastered his wave of sickness and jerked the bag off its bulkhead hook. Might be important medicine in there, so he figured he'd bring it along.

Getting to his feet was tough, staying there, harder still. Virgil had to cling to the edge of the bunk above his own in order to drag himself upright and keep from falling.

Gordon lay in bunk 2E; pale and still and hardly breathing. The biomonitor beside him was so close to flatlining that something fisted up cold and tight within Virgil. He touched his brother's near shoulder, muttering,

"C'mon, kiddo… Rise and shine."

A line on the biomonitor jiggled a little, at that. He'd been heard, at least. Seeking a way to help, Virgil looked the situation over. Gordon was attached to an IV bag of his own, so someone had clearly been caring for him. TinTin, maybe? Or Brains? Whatever, he and Gordon weren't on Tracy Island, because if they _had_ been, someone would surely have brought them to the infirmary.

Not that it mattered much. Looking at the deeply infected young swimmer (his coppery-auburn hair a startling contrast to grayish-pale skin) all that Virgil could think about was the day they'd first been introduced, and the promise he'd made to their mother, Lucinda Tracy.

Virgil and his older brothers, Scott and John, had been escorted into a private hospital room by Granddad. Even here, the big old man smelled of cigarettes, horses and wind-scoured rangeland. His very presence counteracted all of those hushed voices and unfamiliar sights. Grant Tracy was one of those very strong people that nothing dared go wrong around, ever. Pure and simple, Granddad solved problems, settled arguments (sometimes with a strap) and made things right.

His large-knuckled hand atop Virgil's head propelled the four-year-old boy into the room, where Mom lay propped in a bed with his new baby brother. The place was very quiet; dim and sweet-smelling, packed solid with balloons, flowers and cards. Dad and Grandma stood by the bed, looking tired, but Virgil stared only at Mom, being too nervous to move much, or speak.

"It's all right, boys… you can come in."

His mother beamed at them all. She held her nursing baby very tenderly, a proud, fond expression on her lovely face, golden hair loose and softly curtaining.

Virgil hung back, letting 8-year-old Scott and John, 6, draw ahead of him. Lucy gently detached the baby and covered herself.

"Gordon David Tracy," she whispered to the quizzically blinking infant, "Say hello to your big brothers. This is Scott. He's a Boy Scout, and he loves airplanes and Little League. I know that you can't see very well, right now, so I'll tell you that he has black hair and blue eyes, and that _he's_ the one who kept singing the alphabet song while you were still in mommy's tummy."

Scott, delighted, kissed mother and baby, both.

"Hi, Gordon," he said, in an exaggerated whisper. "I'll show you my airplanes and baseball glove as soon as we get home, okay?"

The baby must have recognized Scott's voice, because his fists waved a little, and he blinked harder. Lucy had to reach for John, to tug him forward.

"And this is your brother, John. He likes to count things and line them up, and he helps me to keep the house very clean. He has blond hair, but his eyes are blue, like Scott's and yours are. John's been teaching you mathematical proofs, Baby-Boy."

Her smile, as always, was a little different for John. As though… as if he somehow needed not just piles of love, but extra encouragement. She nodded at him, now.

"Say hello to your new brother, Sweetie."

John had been gazing at his mother, not the baby. She'd been gone for three days, a disruption of routine which had led to stomach cramps and sleeplessness. Lucy caressed his upturned face, leading him to look downward.

"See the baby, John? You have a new brother now, just like you got Virgil, four years ago."

"Four years and six months," John corrected her, getting a frown out of his father. "And Gordon isn't _that_ new. After nearly ten months in utero, he's older than he looks."

"Yes," Lucy agreed warmly. "I suppose that he is. Say hello, Sweetie, and give him a kiss like a good big brother… there you go."

Lucy had shifted position slightly, one arm crooked around the baby, the other hand stroking her second son's blond head. Obediently, John leaned over and brushed his mouth against Gordon's small, red face.

"Like that?" he asked his mother, leaning briefly against her shoulder.

"Exactly like that, Sweetie-Pie. You did great. Gordon will love you very much."

"Like you do?" he reassured himself.

"Yes."

"And Granddad and Grandma?" John frequently made a game of listing people.

"Yes, indeed, John; them, too."

"And Scott and Virgil?"

Lucinda stemmed the flow by kissing him.

"Yes, Sweetie. Scott and Virgil and Daddy, too. Even Nana and Papa and Rusty, up in Heaven. Everybody loves you."

"Okay. That's good." (In those days, John had talked and smiled more, because having Mom around had made all the difference in the world.)

It was Virgil's turn, next. Being little and new to all this, he wasn't sure what to do or say. _He'd_ been the baby for four whole years, and now he was being replaced.

His mother made a gentle scooting motion, so that John and Scott would make room, allowing Virgil to creep forward (he'd been clinging to Granddad's leg, all this time). Everything seemed strange and confusing. His mom wasn't fat anymore, but she was in the hospital because babies made you sick and have to lie down.

Lucinda coaxed gently,

"It's okay, Baby… come on over and have a look."

While Daddy drew Scott and John aside with promises of ice cream, Virgil tiptoed up for his first close glimpse of the little one. Lucy smoothed the brown curls away from her third son's forehead, saying,

"Gordon David, this is Virgil, and he's going to be a special big brother to you, just like Scott is to John, and John is to Virgil. He's going to watch out for you, and teach you everything you need to know. He has brown hair and brown eyes, just like Daddy does, and he likes to ride ponies at Granddad's house, and slide down the stairs on cardboard. Everyday when he climbed into bed with me, he said _'Good morning, Gordon', _right against my tummy."

Virgil looked up at his mother, surely the most wonderful person in the world, and said,

"Now… I could say g'morning a… t' Gordon right at his face, right Mommy? 'Stead of on your tummick?"

She dimpled, like Scott sometimes did.

"Yes, you could, Baby. You most certainly could say '_good_ _morning'_ directly to Gordon. In fact…" her voice dropped to a whisper, and she bent closer, blonde hair swinging like a sheet of fluid gold. "I think he expects it."

"Okay, Mommy."

Virgil looked over at that puzzled red face. Gordon was sort of ugly, but maybe he'd get better looking when he got some teeth and hair.

"G' morning, Gordon," he whispered timidly, putting a hand forth. Since no one stopped him (not even Daddy) Virgil dared to stroke at a tiny fist. Just like that, his finger was captured, held fast in a little hand like a doll's. All at once happy, Virgil looked up at his mother, who said,

"See…? He already knows who you are." And then, best of all, "Would you like to hold him, Baby? After all, he's your responsibility."

Virgil nodded eagerly. Ice cream didn't matter. It wasn't better than sitting on Mommy's bed, braced by Granddad, while she placed the new baby in his arms.

Gordon was so _little, _with blue eyes that strained to make out Virgil's hovering face. He squirmed and flailed and waved his fists, making a little noise like _"eh",_ but he didn't cry, 'cause Granddad said boys never cry, they just handle things.

Very softly, Virgil said,

"Pleased a meetcha, Gordon. I'm gonna be your big brother and take care of you all the time, okay?" Then, wrinkling his nose,

_"Eww… Mommy!_ I think Gordon didn't go t' the potty in time!"

(One of the things John was strictest about was correct toileting procedure; Virgil had spent very little time in diapers.)

Lucinda laughed and kissed the top of her son's head.

"Babies do that, Virgil. You'll have plenty of time to teach him better, I promise. Mother Tracy…?"

Grandma bustled forward to take Gordon from his brother's arms. She was (as the lady herself would have put it) smiling fit to bust, looking like a woman who'd seen Heaven distilled, drop by drop, into four beautiful, healthy grandsons. For eight years now, she'd changed diapers, shushed nightmares and bandaged hurts like a pro.

… And very much, Virgil wished that he had her here, now. Not knowing what else to do, he glanced at the biomonitor, which seemed to have strengthened a bit. Maybe… just keep talking to him? Virgil touched his brother's clammy face.

"Time to get up, Kiddo," he said, as TinTin entered the cabin in a bulky blue hazard suit. "Don't know exactly what's going on, but I've got a feeling we're needed."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Spain__, WorldGov temporary headquarters-_

Indira Chatterjee, Minister of Health, sat perfectly erect in her chair. She'd been brought to an antechamber of Vice President Murasaki's office, presumably to await the results of a computer and cell phone core-dump. A team of crack technicians were even now searching for incriminating data… but the signal she'd sent to Mr. Black should have purged her computer and smart-phone. _Should_ have.

The anteroom was spacious and airy, decorated very simply. There were tatami mats spread upon the floor in place of carpet, with a scattered handful of vases, a folding screen, her chair, and the small, lacquered table which stood gracefully alongside it.

Not a prison, at least. Not yet, at any rate.

To distract herself, Indira looked around with languid, disinterested head shifts. One wall held a brush-and-ink drawing of snowy branches framing a trite haiku about cherry blossoms. Madame Chatterjee affected not to notice, keeping her face and manner as serene as a statue's. Let the dogs bay and the peasants lay their snares; she, Indira Chatterjee, was above them.

The Vice President was famed for decisive action, not mercy, and she was acting in place of President Moreira (still in bed following the Unity Center collapse, which hadn't eliminated the main targets). Chilly and formal, a high-ranking lady of Clan Fujiwara, Murasaki was as unlikely to bend or waver as water to flow uphill.

In the past, Chatterjee had avoided the vice president, but there was no such option, now. Not once they'd found or made up evidence against her. As she cast her mind this way and that, seeking what was to be done, something finally happened.

A white-jacketed young man entered the room, bearing a heavy silver tray. He appeared to be a dining hall steward. Low caste, no doubt.

Madame Chatterjee shifted position somewhat, lest this underling should step on her shadow, or touch her. He came forward, gaze appropriately lowered, and bowed humbly over his tray.

"Honored one," the dark-skinned fellow murmured in flawless Bengali, "please accept refreshment at the behest of Mr. Black."

Coded words, but more than that, he'd made with one hand the signal. Giving the young man a slight, regal nod, Chatterjee indicated that he should place the tray and its contents (a bottle of sparkling mineral water, a drinking glass and a folded cloth napkin) upon the table. He did so, carefully not touching anything with his gloved hands that might, in turn, touch _her_.

Indira's heart began to beat very rapidly, but she nodded again, actually thawing enough to thank the young servant and return his coded signal.

"Many thanks, boy. The… refreshment is accepted," she whispered. "And I trust that our work will go on."

The low caste servant… oddly enough the last person she was ever to see… bowed low.

"May it be so, Honored one."

Once he'd backed from the room, and before anyone could act to stop her, Indira Chatterjee opened her bottle of water, poured a small amount into the ice-filled glass beside it, and then retrieved a small red pill from the folds of her linen napkin. Many thoughts and urges clawed at the Health Minister's mind, but in the end, desire to avoid public humiliation and imprisonment came uppermost.

After all… the work of Red Path would continue, and someday, surely, the hated World Government would fall. With a fervent prayer that she not be reborn to a lower caste, Madame Chatterjee swallowed the red pill, and returned to the Wheel of Becoming. Shouting guards were unable to save the blue-faced, convulsing Health Minister. Nor could all of WorldGov's technicians retrieve her deliberately corrupted data.

Vicente Vargas struck quick, deep and silent.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_New York__, a jolting grav-cart, in the midst of an underground power station- _

He'd been ordered to shut up, so Alan stayed quiet, fighting the urge to scream for help. Chris Springfield was (probably) beside him; depending on Alan to do something smart. 'Cause, like, Chris knew all about horses and goofing off, not rescues.

Trouble was... Alan was having a rough time deciding what to do. That last time, with Gordon, he'd had a drug to battle and medical junk to rip loose. This time, he was tied up and blindfolded, being transported away from his school by some kind of machine-lord invisible kidnapper. Yeah. This was, like, John's kind of thing, not _his_. What the heck was he supposed to do?

Listening closely, Alan could hear the dude's movements over humming machinery, rat squeals and something that sounded like water. Judging from all the rattles and jerks, they were moving pretty fast, but where to?

Where were they headed, and what did the guy plan to do when they got there? He'd mentioned getting paid, so it seemed reasonable to think they were going to be held hostage… but you just couldn't tell. The dude could be a sicko with no intention of releasing his captives, no matter how much Jeff Tracy and Mr. Springfield coughed up.

Laying flat on that cart, cramped between the rim and another captured boy, Alan decided that it was better to scheme and fight than hope for a miracle. Stuff like that happened in the movies, not in real life.

Cautiously, he nudged the guy next to him with an elbow, three times. Sort of, y' know…

_'Hey, how's it going? You up for the great escape?'_

After a second or two, his comrade-in-handcuffery nudged back. Which was good because, while you wouldn't have gotten him to admit it, Alan Tracy was _really_ glad to not be alone. Anyways, just as he was ready to start working his hands loose, something stopped their kidnapper cold, freezing him in his heavy-footed tracks.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The passenger cabin of a modified jet, screaming over the desiccated farmlands of northeastern Nebraska-_

Just when you thought you'd rendered matters fool-proof, along came one more fool. In this case, John Tracy. He had a challenge before him, one that he responded to with every bit of stealth and skill he possessed.

On the surface, the job was straightforward enough; locate a certain system, intercept packets to and from the unit in question, determine its passwords and seize control. _Quietly._

Except that 'Stirling' was no mere computer, and he probably wasn't running the kind of basic damn operating system that John had cracked a thousand times before and could exploit while drunk and bleeding (which had happened once, actually).

This was a cyborg; a computer-enhanced soldier who'd melded high-tech electronic systems to his own body and mind.

_'Go ahead, genius. Hack that one.' _

John frowned at his patiently waiting laptop.

_'Well… shit. So, okay… who did Stirling trust? Which signals always got through the firewall?'_

Needing more background than Penny had been able to provide, John very carefully began researching what little information was freely available on the 'Cyborg Warrior Initiative'. Paranoid government conspiracy crap, mostly. The good stuff would be deep within .gov territory, just where John _didn't_ yet want to go. Too much risk of brushing a tripwire by digging too aggressively; mine those fields, and he faced giving away what he knew about the kidnapper. Better if the cyborg's handlers thought they still had a secret.

Keeping tabs on Stirling's progress through the New York power network, John tried a few 'high school science report' –style queries. Nothing too sophisticated… just wondering…

_Hmm…_ Unless Stirling had permitted a recent upgrade, he was probably running a weird Solaris variant, on a stupidly over-clocked, hybrid SPARC platform. According to the 'secret conspiracy revealed!' website, his electronic and mechanical components were self-healing, his fleshly parts well protected by a short-term, incorporated force field. No doubt, an extremely power-hungry application; after using that bitch for awhile, John was willing to bet that he'd almost certainly have to juice up, or switch batteries. Good to know.

As for Stirling's mind… if what 5pyW3rm claimed was true… the cyborg's brain was insulated from external reality by a subtle computer interface, and he could receive instant, internal messaging over airwaves and cable, both. Nice. Stirling's security was robust, then, but not airtight. In theory, hackable.

John leaned back in his seat, staring at the vanilla-tinted overhead with eyes that were focused someplace else. _Solaris VE: features and vulnerabilities thereof…_

_"John Tracy input_ _requested_."

What…? Oh. He'd almost forgotten about Five, and the body she'd chosen to inhabit. Females, electronic and physical, had the damndest way of popping up at you.

"Yeah… go ahead."

He kept his voice down because Parker (flying the plane) still thought that Penelope was in control, back here. No sense confusing people's illusions, right?

She replied, speaking through Penny,

_"The Tracy-Bennett subroutine has made thirty-seven attempts to access the Over System. The Tracy-Bennett subroutine has sent the following message without significant variation. Message follows: _

_'Please let Daddy be okay. Please help Daddy and make him come back.' _

_…End message. The subroutine's queries have received no reply. What is the correct route and IP address for Over System communication, John Tracy?" _

He shrugged.

"Hell if I know. God listens to kids and good people, and I'm not either. But, um…"

The back of his neck hurt, so John started rubbing at it with his left hand, only to be interrupted when Five got up and crossed the deck to take over. Apparently, she'd been accessing Penelope's data files, because the massage was expertly performed. Anyhow,

"…It could be that the 'Over System' is too large and complex to be understood by low-capacity analogs like myself or Junior. I'm told that large groups of us tend to get better results and clearer replies. How's she… What is the current status of the Tracy-Bennett subroutine?"

The quantum entity Five exhibited both wave and particle nature. She at once occupied the Creighton-Ward wetware and was 'smeared' across an array of nearby realities, drawing and manipulating zero-point energy from each. Her location could not be precisely defined, but grew more probable near her creator and analog companion, John Tracy.

_"The subroutine is maintained and sheltered by Five. The subroutine believes that the Over System will reply to her help message. Five will boost and direct the subroutine's signal, once John Tracy has provided a proper IP address. Awaiting reply."_

Much like the subroutine, she had utter faith in her personal god. Five continued the act of 'touching' her (# FFFFGG)-haired companion, something she could not achieve without an analog host. Inputs such as scent and skin temperature were directly manifested in this form, mere data in any other. John Tracy once more twitched his upper extremities in the manner labeled: _shrug. _

"I don't know… try 'Our Father, who Art in Heaven', using all available bandwidth… and let me know if you get a response, because I've got a few questions to ask, myself."

As good as it felt to sit there being massaged, talking philosophy and watching Nebraska's dustbowl landscape shoot past the plane's windows, John had work to do. Still… meaning something important, he briefly pressed her hands with his own.

"Thanks," he told her quietly, pulling free.

Okay… he already knew Stirling's probable operating system, approximate security level and location. Thing to do now was determine his connectivity; find out what he sent and received, and through which open ports.

For this, he'd need to access one of those local maintenance bots, wait until it responded to Stirling, and then apply his best traceroute and packet-sniffer programs to find a way further in. Simple.

A few minutes later, he had some answers. Stirling was connected through two fire-walled ports: 21 (FTP) and 8322. It was the higher port that interested him, as it seemed to connect to an S700 box in DC, which was linked in turn to a sexy little Vaio. (Government surplus, according to its ID number.)

Well… suppose he got in through a proxy server, cracked Stirling's password list, and then spoofed a 'halt' command using the Vaio's IP address. Throw in a script, too; one geared to generate a massive core dump and crash the system.

If he froze the cyborg's hardware and seized up its OS, would the human mind and organic components take over, or would they lock, giving Alan a slim chance to break free? Thinking, _'shit',_ John drummed his fingers and imagined a pleasant, many-folded space.

Trouble was, even flying full out, there was no way he could reach his brother in less than two hours. Anything could happen in that amount of time. He had one shot at freezing the cyborg, if that, because the organic Stirling would sense his interference immediately. No way to contact Alan, who seemed to be without his wrist comm and ID chip, unless…

"Five, I need you to follow my signal, then infect and lock all area machines and computer systems. Next in the stack, _protect Alan._ Take whatever measures are required short of harming innocent human bystanders, but keep him… and the other kid… safe. Understood?"

Five once again touched her creator, responding,

_"Shield from physical damage Tracy 5.0 and associated analog system Christian Blaine Springfield. John Tracy command understood and accepted."_

Some of her consciousness departed Penny, who now seemed dangerously close to waking. John quickly directed the muddled-and-compliant woman to have a seat, and then returned to business.

First, he hacked his way inside the S700, accessed and applied _rainbowcrack_ to the relevant password hash. Then, fired through the newly-owned DC box, he sent an 'echo' shell command disguised as an important message; pretty as a foil-wrapped ring box, containing nothing but disaster.


	27. 27: Out and Away

Edited.

**27: Out and Away**

_Evening; an IR helijet with Red Cross markings, over the Atlantic Ocean-_

Cindy Taylor was tired and jet-lagged, heading eastward and later into night, as she was. There was no sleep left in her, though; not after the squall they'd just passed through. Their helijet had been bounced around like a tennis ball, leading the reporter to bless her empty stomach.

Flying was a different experience when your pilot was more interested in speed than passenger comfort. The helijet had been diverted from its original mission to collect her, not specifically summoned. So, to make up for lost time, the pilot was flying full-out, miserable weather, or no.

To distract herself from lashing rain and screaming wind gusts, Cindy talked a little, learning that her fellow passengers were every one physicians, and every bit as airsick as _she_ was. Communication consisted mostly of shouting and hand gestures, but Cindy was able to hold a conversation of sorts with the person next to her, a middle-aged black woman named Sharon Floyd.

"Got involved about eight years ago…" the operative shouted, halting momentarily when their helijet made a heart-stopping, roller-coaster drop,

"…after a bunch of Polies and I were rescued from Antarctica!"

Cindy nodded vigorously, taking mental notes aplenty. As it happened, she'd been in the area at the time, chasing what had promised to be a major disaster.

"I was there!" the reporter yelled back, "just offshore, on a Royal New Zealand Navy ship!"

Very much in a '_my_ _life_ _may_ _be_ _over_ _soon' _reminiscing mood (always good luck for nearby journalists) Dr. Floyd shouted through a spate of sudden hail,

"I had to patch up the rescuers, as well as half my own station personnel! Ian was in especially bad shape, but he never has taken advice well, even from me… Seemed like, before NASA, not the month went by without that boy turning up at _Clinic on the Sand_ for some kind of wound treatment… Things have been pretty dull, since he left for Mars, though!"

_Ian? NASA? Mars?_ Cindy concealed her prick-eared curiosity as best she could. It seemed that luck had deposited her beside John Tracy's personal physician (who felt close enough to use a pet name). Interesting...

"I'm supposed to be in semi-retirement," the older woman snapped, apparently gladder than she wished to let on that her help had been needed.

"…And here I am, at _my_ age, traipsing off into God knows what, trying to save Europe! Good thing International Rescue's covering the bills, because my insurance certainly won't!"

Cindy smiled at her; a well practiced, ultra-bright tooth flash and head toss.

"Relax," yelled the reporter, "you're storing up treasure in heaven, or something! What about Scott?" she then asked, steering the subject back to her prospective family. "Does he come in pretty often, too?"

The helijet lurched a good fifteen feet upward, caught in a violent draft, but Cindy was too involved in the conversation to do more than clutch at her armrests and gasp.

"Not often," Dr. Floyd responded with a headshake. "He takes better care of himself, or else he's got a doctor of his own, somewhere! Have you two set a date, yet?"

Cindy hesitated before nodding. Yes… she loved Scott Tracy and wanted to marry him, but this kid issue…

"Saturday, April 21st, on the island!"

…Along with John, Jeff and a cast of thousands. If Virgil showed up with a sweetheart and _further_ divided the wedding pie, Cindy intended to elope. Provided Scott could be talked out of his baby-fetish, that is.

They reached the coast of Portugal before Dr. Floyd could do more than offer a handclasp and blessing. The helijet's landing was a juddering, bumpy, ugly thing; more controlled crash than touch down, but no one was much hurt. A hover-car was waiting to pick them up by the landing pad, its LED side panels and license plate shifting in seconds from _Ciudad_ _AeroFreight_ to _Portuguese_ _Red_ _Cross_.

A few minutes later, after a brief, drenching scramble, reporter and medical team were off again, smuggled further inland by a second operative crew. Cindy curled up in her leather seat, alternately planning and napping. She was far from home and wet through, but oddly happy, for nothing (love included) thrilled her more than slipping past barbed wire and loaded weapons after a story.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Mid-afternoon, speeding over the South Pacific in Thunderbird 3-_

Jeff Tracy was a worried man, not a stupid one. If the CDC was being monitored, perhaps USAMRID _wasn't_; after all, the Red Path might find US Army communications harder to crack than a civilian agency's. Better yet, he had an operative already in place there, Specialist First Class Natalya Camacho.

Contacting her on a private line, Jeff made a stab at arranging plan B; an alternative 'care package' delivery to USAMRID headquarters in Fort Detrick, Maryland.

_"I'll speak with my superiors, sir,"_ Natalya told him. She was a dark-eyed, uniformed beauty (rescued from a medical research mission gone disastrously wrong some two-and-a-half years earlier). _"…But I can pretty much guarantee that they'll be happy to catch whatever you throw them."_

Sitting in the pilot's seat, Jeff smiled. Though tired and concerned, IR's greying commander took time to praise his operative.

"Thank you, Natalya. I appreciate whatever you and USAMRID can do. We've _got_ to get those viruses into the hands of qualified medical personnel, as quickly as possible. Contact whomever you need to, and call back when you've got a landing site and time for me."

_"Yes, sir,"_ she smiled back. _"Will do."_

After he broke connection, Jeff returned his attention to flying for a bit, drawing peace and strength from responsive controls and powerful machinery. Beside him in the copilot's seat, Scott was talking with Brains and Virgil (weak, but recovering).

Jeff half-listened to their astronaut transfer plans while he guided Thunderbird 3 over the Pacific. That vast and pitiless ocean was home to more bones than he could number, and it made a restless, dark backdrop for his hamster-wheel thoughts.

Viruses… 'space flu'… Red Path… astronauts… Gordon… the kidnapped boys… and John, who somehow had to be strong enough to get the job done, alone. His father inhaled sharply, feeling nothing but ice in his gut. His hands tightened on the controls, causing 3 to nose over. Nothing major… but it _did_ shake up their startled passengers.

"Dad?" Scott inquired, cutting off his own comm line. "You okay? Want me to take over for awhile?"

The boy was just as tired as Jeff, but eager to fly; strong in a way that John never would be. His father nodded.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Go ahead and pilot the ship, son, while I make another round of calls."

He transferred control to Scott, rubbed at his throbbing temples for a moment, and then connected to Lady Murasaki, WorldGov's acting leader. The line was deeply encrypted, for her, at least. Jeff saw an elegant oriental woman in dark western clothing, while all that Murasaki could make out was a weirdly distorted silhouette.

She at once burst into a flood of quick, mellifluous Japanese. Although her posture and expression did not alter, something about her tone suggested sharp, concerned inquiry.

"I beg your pardon, Madame Vice President," Jeff told her, when she at last paused, "But I don't understand such rapid-fire Japanese."

Murasaki's dark, delicate eyebrows lifted.

_"Can it be so?"_ she asked him, switching to lightly accented English. _"Always before, my 'contact' and I have spoken freely, but that is no matter."_

Very slightly, WorldGov's acting head leaned forward, an act which drew a faint grimace from her.

_"I seek assurance, sir, that the viruses of Dr. Kim will soon be delivered."_

She'd lost a leg in the Unity Complex disaster, but with painkillers and willpower retained control of both herself and the sprawling world government. A strong, crafty and unyielding woman.

Worried about the possibility of further security leaks, Jeff was careful to reply without giving specifics.

"Madame Vice President, International Rescue is committed to doing everything possible to get you that cure."

Murasaki's smoothly-coiffed head inclined once, gracefully. She said, keeping to the point,

_"There are many lives at stake, sir; many more already lost to this terrorist plague. Unknown quantities of Red Path sleepers infest my government… one of whom chose to end her life through poison rather than face questioning. I know not who can be trusted, nor from which direction the next blow will fall. Thus, I require not calming and reassurance, but truth. Can International Rescue bring us relief, or am I best advised to place Western Europe under quarantine, double my guard and close down the stock markets?"_

A fair question, from a woman whose quiet voice and gentle manner hid shogun blood and shining steel. As Thunderbird 3 drew near to San Marcos, Jeff gave her the best answer he could. Over rumbling-loud engines he said,

"Madame Vice President, you have my word that International Rescue will not stop trying until we've succeeded. I _promise_ you."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_New York State, in an underground power line network-_

Stirling halted; the grav-cart stopping short just behind him. A data packet had reached him, routed through the local power grid's computer network.

The source IP address was that of a trusted sender, Mr. Black. Automatically, the packet was accepted, slipping through the cyborg's firewall via port 8322 to open up in the interface between his CPU and wetware.

No message screen appeared in his mind's eye, however, but a storm of randomizing chaos. There were shell commands hidden within the 'message' like Greek soldiers in a wooden horse. Faster than organic will could act to prevent them, the commands branched, flowered and burst into fiery seed; a dark and vicious hailstorm that slashed through his data files, setting unassigned pointers to invalid sums. All at once, any attempt to navigate his own internal landscape opened Stirling's most critical directories to the newly injected commands; he was laid open like he had been before, on the surgeon's table.

A core dump was triggered and data hemorrhaged forth in a white-hot torrent, pouring into someone else's file. Echoing the cyber-damage, his meatspace hardware locked up. _Now_ a message screen appeared, edged in darkness and moiré. Upon it glittered the words:

(echo- quit now or get totally f-king jackson pollacked- stirling.txt)

Thinking was akin to stirring a can of old paint with a plastic spoon, but Stirling summoned the will to shut off his processing unit and WiFi connections. Only just in time, for the machines and sensors around him had begun to spark and pulse like something out of nightmare, their traces and cables glowing straight through the concrete walls.

With a button-press, Stirling switched to reserve battery power, using the slow, palsied control that his brain could still exert over the mechanized parts to make himself turn. His grav-cart was rattling away under someone else's direction, bearing its squirming passengers into the Cornell-West tunnel, and out of sight.

Stirling grunted. Without connectivity or enhanced senses, he was almost literally blind… but unafraid. Whoever had hacked his systems was blocked, now; powerless to cause further harm and probably far away. Not important. Stirling had long since memorized the old New York P&L tunnel system. There were only so many places his fleeing marks could go. Recapture would be pain-in-the-ass troublesome, but not impossible; not for _him_. Slowly and implacably forcing himself to move, the cyborg started after them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, approaching San Marcos-_

Under full Shadowbot coverage, the sleek crimson rocket aligned herself with Earth's magnetic field. Quick as thought, she rumbled downward, tracking certain vectored numbers like an orange signal flare.

Within the rocket's ornate passenger lounge, everyone but Janie was quiet; tense as a box of compressed steel springs. The tiny girl more than made up for all their silence, though, shrieking at the highest pitch that a toddler's lungs could manage.

If this was a bus, then busses were bad, because it wasn't taking her back to _Endurance_ or daddy. It was taking her to Earth, where everything was scary.

Janie tried to push away, but mommy wouldn't let go. Mommy kept saying that Earth was fun, but it _wasn't_. Not even a little bit. For awhile, Janie's stomach felt back the old way, like they were up in space again, but in the window she saw _blue,_ not black, and a big, big sun that was yellow. Crying really bad, she did something mean and hit mommy, but her mother still held on tight.

When the Earth bus went all the way down, Janie almost couldn't move, not even to dock her thumb. The voice inside told her things, but Janie was too scareded to listen, kicking and yelling louder than ever.

Uncle Pete put her inside his blue tee-shirt, because… nobody would do that, nobody would _never_ do that… they opened the door _with no spacesuits on._

The Moon smelled funny and made you couldn't move good, but it sounded almost like _Endurance_ and sometimes there was fun moonquakes. She used to didn't like the Moon, but now Janie wanted to go right back to quarreltine, no matter if there was a hundred yellow mens there with shots for your blood.

But down they went, and out. Even with her eyes closed, even through Uncle Pete's blue shirt, she could feel bright light and hot, pushing, noisy air… like a big vent was too close to the Earth-engines. Didn't Uncle Pete and mommy memberize the checklist? Didn't they member it was dangerous to go outside? Or Auntie Cho and Uncle Roger?

Earth was bad and stupid and dumb and ugly. You had to walk instead of fly, and the hot, endless outside was allowed to come touch you. Even when they went inside another ship and all the right sounds were back, Janie wouldn't open her eyes or talk to mommy. She just held on to Uncle Pete's shirt and made believe everything was okay again. That Uncle Pete would say _"Stupid piece-of-crap Earth!"_ get daddy and take them all home to space.


	28. 28: Act Two

Edited.

**28: Act Two**

_Somewhat earlier, at a Wal-Mart parking lot in Hudson Valley, New York-_

Myrna Bremmerman was over halfway to her waiting vehicle (its doors remotely opened and headlights flashing) when a cadre of dark-suited men surrounded her and the three scurrying boys. Her iPhone was still in Myrna's hand, her husband's number just two flicks and a tap away… but the nearest suit seized her wrist before she could act to call Dwight.

"I'm sorry, ma'am," the fellow muttered tensely, "but I'm going to have to ask you to put away the phone. You and your charges are being taken into protective custody."

"By whose order?" Myrna demanded, gathering Fermat, Sam and Daniel closer about her. The parking lot lights hummed to life all at once, gilding dozens of rain puddles and clearly outlining six very large shoulder holsters.

She might have thrown a punch or screamed, but Sam Nakamura broke away from the physicist's grip and turned to face her.

"Dr. Bremmerman," he said, quietly, "It's all right to trust these men. They are acting on my mother's behalf. This is Agent Frost, and he is always assigned to me over the school year, just as Agent Temple oversees my brother Edwin, at Princeton. Isn't that so, Mr. Frost?"

The agent, dark-haired and stone-faced, nodded slightly.

"It is. Akira has been secured, already, but your mother needs to hear that you're safe, too, Yoshi."

_Right…_ Like most academics, Myrna Bremmerman distrusted every government but Switzerland's. She'd have said 'no' to the protective custody idea, but Frost's gun (even holstered) said _'yes'._

An unmarked van purred up beside them, its doors sliding open before the vehicle quite halted.

"Inside, please, folks," Agent Frost told Myrna, Sam, Fermat and Daniel, as the other men drew near. "We need to get away."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Upstate New York, at a small FBO airport-_

Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward had come to herself after what seemed hours of bleakest nightmare. How, precisely, she'd drifted off in so irresponsible a manner, the young noblewoman hadn't the foggiest notion. Somehow, in the midst of a critical mission, she'd slept; and not pleasantly, either.

The private jet's touchdown had waked her from a time, many years past, when she'd lain sleepless all night awaiting word of her missing parents. Elspeth Morgan had sat by her bed that long night murmuring reassurance, but mum and dad never returned, leaving their daughter alone and penniless.

Here in the present, an older Penelope unstrapped and rose. From the pilot's cabin she could hear Parker speaking over the comm, requesting a berth for the jet. Penelope halted him in mid-speech.

"Parker," she called out, her voice a high, clear thing, brittle as glass.

"Milady…?" The driver's thin-haired, large-nosed head peered around the hatchway.

"Please do not trouble the airport administrator with a berthing request. We shall not be staying."

"Very good, Milady. If you'll 'ave a seat, and the young Mister Tracy, as well, I'll take us back out to…"

"Mister Tracy will remain behind to complete business of his own, Parker. You and I shall proceed alone to the island."

"Of course, Milady," Parker responded smoothly. He was too well trained to enquire further into the affaires of his mistress.

Penelope scarcely heard him. She was looking at John, searching the young man's handsome face for any trace of emotion. There might have been _something_ there… mild confusion, perhaps… but for the most part, her former paramour looked as though she'd announced a slight change in marketing plans rather than sudden abandonment. Naturally.

She moved toward him across the airplane cabin, stretching up to place a brief, chilly kiss on his cheek. In the ear of her mind (mingled with the silent pleas of that long-ago night) Penelope could still hear the voice of small Janie, asking for the safe return of her father. Foolish, perhaps… but Penny remembered too well the feel and sound of a child's breaking heart to inflict such misery, herself.

"Do be careful, darling," Penny whispered. "It seems that you're very much wanted, elsewhere."

"You're not coming?" John asked her, more annoyed than bereft.

"I believe not, dear. It has become quite evident that I've been supplanted… and I prefer to depart the field with some small measure of dignity. You'll…"

Her cool smile faltered slightly, then.

"You _will_ keep your promise regarding Stirling, won't you? He perhaps bears little resemblance to the man I knew before, but for the sake of that friendship, and ours, I ask you once more to let him live."

John frowned at the deck below his feet, nodding reluctantly.

"I'll do my best not to finish the guy off, Penny…. But I can't promise. Not if it comes down to a choice of him or Alan."

"I quite understand, dear, and honestly wish you the very best of luck. Should the situation between yourself and that… and your _wife_… ever change, do please apprise me. I shall hasten to your side. I should think that I'd make a brilliant mother, actually."

Not sure how to respond, John merely grunted. Females were hard to deal with at the best of times. Throw a fading relationship and hostage situation into the mix, and you might as well tape evening shadows to the living room wall. Long story short, they wouldn't stay. Not Drew, not Penny… maybe not Linda, even. One after another, for mysterious reasons of their own, they'd leave him.

…which was how he came to find himself alone in upstate New York on a chilly, sleeting night, with two hundred dollars, an inactivated ID chip, his laptop and a borrowed pistol.

Earth seemed large and open after nearly three years of shipboard cabins and colony digs. Weird-smelling, too, and filled with odd noises. There were trees and a blinking cell tower nearby, but more importantly an access point to the NY Power and Light maintenance system.

Stirling was down there someplace, with Alan and the Springfield kid, so John Tracy intended to follow. He divested himself of his tie and suit jacket, then picked the lock on the P&L tunnel hatch, felt around for a ladder, and climbed on down. As far as what he was 'feeling', not a whole lot beyond the desire to avoid screwing up; anything else would just have gotten in the way.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Below ground, a few miles further east-_

Working savagely at his cuffs, Alan Tracy had finally managed to free his hands. His heart was thudding and the air trapped within his canvas hood smelled rank and hot.

Alan might not have had the courage to try freeing himself, except that the cart he was on had changed direction suddenly, speeding up, too. Something new was happening, and Alan didn't want to be sitting there… all wrapped up with bow and a note card… when the grav-cart reached its destination.

He scraped tons of skin off his right thumb, but kept pulling, pain or no, even sitting up to squirm his shackled hands around his butt to the front of his body. His right hand got free on the third try. The canvas hood was only buckled on, not locked, so Alan just tore it off. This left only his duct-tape-and-cloth gag, and the leg irons.

His numbed fingers had trouble finding the edge of the silvery tape square, much less ripping it off, but he was in a panicked hurry and kept trying till the gag tore painfully loose. His mouth was too dry to spit the wadded cloth out, so Alan had to reach in after it.

All this time, the grav-cart had been rushing along some kind of concrete hallway, like a weird theme park ride. 'Krazy Kidnap' or something…

The guy beside him had got his own hands loose, but needed help with the hood and gag. It turned out to be Chris (just like Alan thought) doing his best not to look as 100 percent, 'please help me' scared as he probably felt. Considering their situation… his being a regular, civilian school-kid and all… just not peeing his pants was a major achievement. Forget trying to look cool.

"You okay?" Alan asked him, as soon as he could work up enough spit to talk.

Chris nodded. He had a weird-colored square on his face from the duct tape, and the corner of his mouth was cut up, but other than that, he seemed all right.

"Can't get the cuffs off my feet, though, can you?"

Alan hadn't yet tried, but a few moments' experimentation proved that his leg irons were too tightly fastened to squirm out of. He could shrink up his hand real skinny, but even without shoes, he and Chris had big feet. On the bright side, they weren't bound to each other, or the cart, either.

"Dang," Alan muttered, "guess we're just going to have to shuffle, like, _rapidly."_

Chris snorted.

"I'll walk on my hands, if I have to, but let's get off this thing before it gets where it's going."

Neither of them wanted to stick with their kidnapper's vehicle.

"Okay… on three, right? You go _that_ way; I'll roll off this side. One… two… _three!"_

At the three-count, Alan half-rolled, half-sprang from their moving cart, which looked simple in movies and video games, but hurt like crap in real life. He, like, jammed his left shoulder trying to roll to his feet, then tripped over the dang ankle chain, and fell flat.

Guessing from Springfield's eye-opening language that he wasn't doing much better, Alan got up and shuffled over, his irons rattling at every step. He memorized some of the choicer phrases, planning to pass them along to Gordon, later. Chris was plenty upset, having landed on some kind of service mech. Worse, the little robot kept trying to push him toward their abandoned cart, which was speeding back up the hallway.

"Alan, I'm going to be straight with you," Springfield panted, once they'd ducked down a corridor too narrow for the pursuing cart. "I've got _no_ frickin' clue how we got here. One minute, I'm taking my saddle off the wall peg, okay? Next minute, I'm tied up for delivery like a sack of snail-mail. _What the hell happened?"_

"I think we got kidnapped for ransom money, by some kind of high-tech robot-commando dude."

As quick and quietly as he could, Alan related everything that he still remembered. Had to keep an eye on that stupid servo-mech, which was still rolling after them, beeping frantically. Thinking fast, Alan guided his friend up a flight of stairs that their wheeled pursuer couldn't negotiate. These tunnels had been designed with upright, flexible humans in mind, not service bots. (Or shackled kidnap victims, either, though the boys managed better than NYPL's old-fashioned service machinery did.)

He said,

"Cody's probably okay. I mean, I bet he ran off to get help, and he's, like, telling the police everything that happened, y'know?"

Alan hated the anxious note in his own voice. _Gordon_ never sounded like that. Unlike Alan, he was always too busy laughing or getting mad to be scared, but…

"Yeah," Springfield agreed, looking kind of pale in the corridor's weak lighting. "I bet he's sitting at a police station right now, scarfing donuts and telling everything he knows."

"Probably even followed the guy a ways," Alan embroidered their fantasy, "and figured out where he was taking us."

Chris actually smiled, at that.

"Of course, he did," the older boy responded loftily. "I choose my future executive assistants _wisely, _thank you very much."

Dang… Springfield was already assembling his _staff?_

"Uh… yeah. Me, too," Alan agreed, making a mental note to hire TinTin, y'know, immediately. "My right-hand girl, Delphine, is all over this like cherry frosting, trust me."

Chris and Alan paused at a gloomy T-junction a few minutes later, knowing what they ought to do, but hating it.

"Guess it makes sense to split up, huh?" Alan ventured at last, while Springfield re-read a badly oxidized '_you_ _are_ _here'_ wall schematic for, like, the tenth time. "There's two ways to take, and Mechano-Master probably can't follow us down both of them at once, right?"

"Right," Chris agreed, heavily. Maybe he was nervous, too? "West branch looks a little shorter… you take that one. I'll go south, towards Hudson. First one out flags down a cop and screams for help like a woman, got it?"

Alan nodded.

"They'll hear me all the way over in Santa Monica, dude."

"Weak lungs, huh?" Chris scoffed, punching Alan's shoulder. "_I_ was planning to alert Tokyo."

You had to admire a guy like that; someone confident enough to be competitive in the middle of frickin' disaster. Alan punched him back.

"Yeah. See you on the flipside, Springfield."

…But he really wished that they didn't have to split up. Alone was a terrible place to be, right now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Traveling rapidly away from DC, in a chauffeured vehicle-_

Vicente Vargas had, with one brutally swift act, taken control of Red Path. His former master and only friend lay in a locked room of the bomb shelter, covered with a government-issue sheet. Dead, at Vargas' hand.

Had the Peruvian assassin not struck him down, however, someone else would have; someone who might not have cared enough to leave Senor his illusions. Thus, Vargas rationalized his actions… but this crime (this _sin)_ sat heavily, nonetheless, for that which started with blood usually ended the same way.

Desiring an update, he attempted to contact Stirling. The cyborg failed to respond; offline, or worse.

Vargas sat back from his laptop and steepled his fingers, considering the first pale hints of ruin. The leather car seat was far more comfortable than his host of sudden visions.

Coming to a swift decision, Vargas contacted Shr3ddr, his usual IT expert.

"Determine what has happened," Red Path's leader told the sloppy young hacker. "If Stirling has been attacked and shut down remotely, follow up the source and take down its originator. You are authorized to send lethal force to the site of the attacking computer, once a physical address has been acquired. You are to kill whoever is found there, including the Tracy and Springfield hostages. Am I understood?"

The hacker squinted through his glasses at a distorted and hissing image.

"Sure thing, Mr. Black," Shr3ddr responded. "Bring in the big guns, wipe out the enemy nest. Not a problem. About my money, though…?"

Vargas smiled thinly.

"To borrow your phrase, Mr. Fielding: _not a problem._ Rest assured that your check is in the mail."

Mr. Black was a tidy man, and he preferred to sort out his loose ends. The comm link was shut down before Shr3ddr could reply, and then Vargas fell once more to thinking.

Stirling was down, perhaps permanently, the hostages probably lost. International Rescue had sent forth a field agent to intercept him. Balked on their CDC delivery scheme, they would no doubt seek an alternative; the US Army Medical Research Infectious Disease unit, most likely…

Genovese hadn't called in since leaving the Moon, and the Peruvian's attempts to contact _Goliath_ met with nothing but silence. Very well… _now_ what?

From force of habit, Vargas reached for his cell phone, meaning to call Senor. And again, the blood of a friend stained his vision. Angry, hurt as a snake that had bitten its own tail, Vargas instead used a well-known help line to call International Rescue, demanding to speak to its leader.

Some few thudding heartbeats and rasping breaths later, he was connected to a digitally altered voice.

_"This is International Rescue. I understand that I'm speaking to Red Path?"_

"You are," Vargas replied, meaning to stir up some traceable communication, and with it, locate IR's troublesome field agent. "The attack on our man, and your continued attempts to deliver the virus, have been noted. Both efforts must be considered failures, though one has to applaud your tenacity. The addition of your hacker will bring our hostage total up to four."

Said the voice at the other end,

_"The fact that you called tells me you're sweating, mister, and you've got no earthly clue what the hell to do next."_

Signaling Shr3ddr, Vargas drew the conversation out a bit. If he shook the man up, made him worry about the status of his field agent, a hurried and unsecured call might be made.

"Do not fear for my peace of mind, sir. It is rather your well-being that is cause for concern. You fight a losing battle, though I suppose it is difficult to see this, with WorldGov's bit and bridle in your mouth… if that is all that they've placed there. Now that your agent has been found and captured, I can learn the truth at my leisure."

Another few heartbeats passed before International Rescue responded.

_"Listen to me. Better yet, write this down: whoever you are, and whatever crevice you're hiding in, I'm going to hunt you down and goddam kill you. That's a __promise.__"_

Vargas found himself smiling, slightly.

"Very well," he replied, "let the game commence."


	29. 29: Insurance

Edited.

**29: Insurance**

_Thunderbird 3, over the Pacific once more-_

Jeff Tracy was cold all over. His vision had narrowed to a spark-edged tunnel, but he wasn't sick. Instead, he was angry; choking-gut, hard-to-breathe, furious. And, yes… tumbled about like a pebble in that torrent of rage… there was also a kernel of fear.

It was a very good thing that his son, Scott, was flying the spacecraft, because Jeff couldn't have handled a rusty push cart, just then. Were Alan and the Springfield boy still hostage? Or dead? Had John's typical nervous mistakes gotten him, too, captured?

Jeff put a shaking hand over his eyes, drawing air in deep, measured breaths as he searched for quiet and calm. Once (before Lucy's death) he'd have prayed. Now he trusted to quick thinking, powerful machinery and the unflinching courage of his sons. Most of them, anyhow.

If John had failed, if he was now in the hands of Red Path, then Jeff would deliver those bacteriophage viruses at the cost of two sons and Christian Springfield. Very much, he wanted to hit his wrist comm and call John; find out exactly what was going on, because ignorance and helplessness were terrifying. At this moment, even muttered monosyllables and averted blue eyes would have been sunlight through storm clouds; proof that all was well.

Very probably, though, that was _exactly_ what his Red Path contact had figured on. That Jeff would be so unnerved by the terrorist's vicious threats that he'd call and pinpoint his son for them.

Still… _God…_ what if it was true? What if the boys were even now being dragged into an interrogation room, or about to stumble into a trap? It had happened before.

"Dad…?" Scott said to him, over the sound of rumbling engines and humming controls. "John is with Lady Penelope and Parker, remember? That Red Path jerk-off only mentioned _one_ field agent. I think he's bluffing."

Jeff Tracy looked over at his grim-voiced oldest son. Dark haired and fierce-eyed, Scott met and held his stare, continuing.

"I don't think they've captured a damn thing, dad. In fact, I'll bet good money that John's done something to scare the shit out of them. That they don't know where he is, or how to block him. Bet me."

Jeff's composure returned like the tide; in gradual, patient waves. Voice little more than a whisper, he said,

"You're probably right, son, but I'm not sure that John… it's deeply frustrating not to _know."_

Beside him in the copilot's seat, Scott shifted his attention to 3's beeping flight controls and then back again.

"I _do_ know, dad, because I know John. He's smart and he's sneaky, and I've learned the hard way never to be on the opposite side of an argument with him. Trust me, sir; he'll get the job done."

Scott's confidence was contagious. Jeff let it re-spark his own pilot light, managing a nod and brief smile, even.

"Okay. End of subject. Why don't you head back to purge the passenger lounge, and then have a quick nap, Scott? I'll call you forward when we're feet-dry."

Truthfully, they could both have used a little rest, but the situation wouldn't allow it. Scott was clearly more tired, having flown non-stop to the island with Brains, earlier.

"You sure?" his son yawned, already unstrapping to rise.

"Positive, Scott. Straight, level flight I can still handle, believe it or not."

Jeff didn't precisely thank his oldest son for the steadying pep-talk, but gratitude showed, anyway, in his warm, rough tone and slightly crinkled brown eyes; signals you had to really search for, to notice.

"FAB," Scott replied. "But if advanced age finally gets to you… or you hear anything at all from John… wake me up."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Fort Detrick, Maryland, at an Army medical research building-_

Specialist First Class Natalya Camacho set aside the samples she'd been labeling. She was a clerk in the Biosafety Level 2 infectious disease storage center, routinely handling mild flu, mumps and the less serious variants of measles. Vicious level 4 pathogens like Ebola and drug-resistant tuberculosis were studied elsewhere, though Naty cherished hopes of being promoted to caretaker of such limelight bugs. The ultimate coups, being transferred to the CDC's Epidemic Intelligence Service, or discovering and naming a deadly virus, lay possibly just twelve college credit hours ahead. Of course, anything you could do to get yourself noticed…

After securing her samples (H1N3 swine flu, as it happened; the pandemic that never was) Naty washed up and disinfected her glassware and work space, then left the small prep lab. Locked it up, too, because any germ (under the right circumstances) could turn ugly.

Just outside of her lab and storage room was the Level 2 central hub, a relatively relaxed area where people wore regular clothing or Army Class-As rather than biohazard 'space suits'. Several large metal doors opened off of the busy room, but Naty ignored them. What she wanted was right in the center; the supervising officer's desk.

Even in a green uniform, under harsh fluorescent lighting, Natalya was pretty enough to draw stares as she crossed the floor to stand before Captain Baker.

"Sir…?" she announced herself, though the young doctor had already glanced up.

He smiled at her, leaning back in his squeaky rolling chair.

"What's new in the world of viral mutations, Naty?"

Ray Baker was a nice-looking Anglo man, but already married, and therefore off limits. Still, she returned the smile, saying,

"I have just been contacted by International Rescue, Captain."

Dr. Baker dropped his pen and snapped clean out of that semi-flirtatious, hands-behind-the-head lounge. Such opportunities did not often filter through to level 2.

"You have my attention," he said to her, all at once very serious.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Upstate New York, just below ground-_

John Tracy was actually relieved to drop from the open and moving night air to the confined depths of a rusty-smelling maintenance tunnel. After nearly three years of space ships and subsurface activity, he'd become a touch agoraphobic. Out in the open, anything could come at you, from any direction at all; but damp, vibrating concrete walls and clicking machinery felt-smelled-looked like security.

Some of John's tension abated the instant he landed on the tunnel floor beside his laptop case. He listened for a long, still minute before rising from his crouch and sliding the pistol back into its holster. The sounds around him were mechanical in origin. Like a humming coke machine, a purring engine or a thumping water pump, perfectly understandable. Computers, dogs, horses and machines followed their programs. Take care of them properly, and they wouldn't fail you. It wasn't the same with people. You could only write to their source code when they were very young, and even then (like Virgil) they tended to screw with it.

John shrugged the matter aside and collected his laptop, stepping over a leaf-spattered puddle to the corridor wall. There was a monitor box there. Locked, naturally, though it sprang open once his palm print was analyzed; Five's doing.

Seven square miles of pumping stations and power grids were represented in there, with blinking power-use lights and water-pressure gauges alongside. One of the lights set up a quick, patterned flash, winking out the Morse code version of his name.

_'John Tracy.'_

He nodded, though the box had no camera lens or audio pickup. With his ID chip inactivated, unless John tripped a motion sensor or hacked into the local network, she couldn't directly see or hear him. On the bright side, neither could anyone else.

Tapping the monitor box's touch pad, he signaled back,

"Here. Will check in along the way. Indicate location of Alan Tracy, Christian Springfield and Red Path agent. JMT."

Her reply was swift. Using the box's grid map, she formed a primitive traceroute to the shifting positions of Alan, Springfield and the Cyborg (estimated, for Stirling triggered few sensors, and was currently offline).

Not good. The boys had left his hijacked grav-cart and split up. According to the most recent intelligence Five could muster, Stirling had followed Alan down the Cornell-west tunnel, and was gradually catching up.

Well… scrapping the master plan had become something of a habit, lately, though he'd very soon run out of code letters. Cornell-west branched a narrow spur to the little airport John had entered through. The two tunnels met about a quarter of a mile south of his location. From that point, a sharp right turn would put him a few hundred yards ahead of Alan and the cyborg. If he hurried, John could intercept Stirling before the assassin got to his brother. Slam-bam, thank you, Ma'am, and mission accomplished.

The grid map flickered, as one of its power-flow lights resumed blinking. Five, again. She said,

_'Red Path mechanism may be diverted to transformer station 52 for recharge. Red path mechanism may then be destroyed through application of massive electrical discharge. John Tracy authorization required.'_

He hesitated. Stirling was extremely dangerous. Left alive, the Red Path assassin would escape police custody, or be killed in prison by his former employers. But… John had promised not to take whatever remained of the half-man's life.

"No," he responded, tapping vigorously at the monitor box touch pad. "Authorization denied. Here's the new plan: find and delay Red Path agent until I reach the area. Attempt to trigger force field use by dropping or launching objects at him. I will do the same when I get there, using a firearm. Once his batteries are drained, or he tries to recharge, the agent can be knocked unconscious and left for the police."

Five expressed reluctance to follow orders by delaying her response. He actually had to prompt her, tapping out,

"Understood?"

…before the quantum entity replied,

_'John Tracy input received. Red Path mechanism will not be destroyed unless irreparable damage threatens John Tracy.'_

Fair enough... and one hell of a nurse maid. He wished once more that she were physically present to smile at or touch, but maybe having a friend who inhabited the machines and bodies around him worked, too. So long as her code held up, she'd never falter, never leave, never fade. Really, what more could you want?

John accepted her terms, shoved a few strands of blond hair from his face, and then set off down corridor to the junction with Cornell-West. Small pebbles and bits of glass crunched underfoot, while tiny puddles gleamed with reflected light. There were arthropods present and rats, as well, but these scurried out of his way. Possibly, after three years off-world, he smelled funny?

_What-the-hell-ever. Keep moving_.

The way seemed long, even with all the maintenance Five had given him. He made it to the Cornell-west junction later than expected, and in far worse shape; exhausted, sore and short of breath. By that time, according to Five and the next monitor box, both Alan and Stirling had passed him. Worse, the cyborg was dangerously close to overtaking his brother.

_Damn it._

There were wise quitting points within just about any endeavor. Typically, John ignored them. Shivering and achy, he forced himself to turn right at the larger tunnel and keep going.

Being a long-distance cable and pipeline throughway, this corridor was darker and further underground. John had to climb down a set of metal steps to reach it, quickening his pace when he hit the grubby floor. Tried to, anyway. For a moment, there, nothing wanted to move.

"Tomorrow," he promised rebellious flesh and tired bone, "long rest tomorrow, honest."

He'd lifted a few sugar lumps from the bar in Penny's jet, the kind that you stir into coffee or tea. Popped two of them into his mouth before setting off again, together with four alertness tabs. He'd feel it all later, of course, but the important thing was strength and energy, _now._

Fortunately, the trick worked, allowing John to continue with only occasional pauses for rest and time-to-time status checks. Five warned him with a flickering glow panel when he came within a hundred feet of the cyborg. Half the lights in this part of the Cornell-west tunnel were out, their covers having popped loose over Stirling's head to trigger and drain the force field.

John very quietly unsnapped the cover on his pistol and cut off the safety. Then he set down his laptop and stalked forward, hyper-aware and intensely focused. The machine-man was just ahead of him, plodding like an overworked, metalized ox.

If Alan hadn't been shackled, he'd have gotten away easily, but the leg irons were heavy and cumbersome, causing repeated falls. The last motion-sensing camera he'd tripped past had revealed a bruised and dirty, frightened kid, just around the corner from Stirling.

Decision time: _what now?_

Pulling his pistol, John considered. All three of them were in sorry damn shape, Alan within easy reach. If it came to a fight, John wasn't at all certain he had enough bullets to fully drain Stirling. If _not,_ he'd be killed and Alan recaptured. They were nowhere near a transformer station… nothing nearby but heavily shielded cables, low-power LEDs and Alan (crouched like a hunted rabbit, just twelve feet away).

"Hey!" John called out, as the lurching, half-blind cyborg neared his brother. "Over here, chrome-ass!"

John started firing before the cyborg finished turning around, deliberately aiming just a bit to one side (and well away from Alan's corner). Not one shot got through, whining off instead to chip concrete and smash lights. The last few bullets weren't deflected as far, though it was impossible to tell how close to drained Stirling was. With two rounds left in the magazine and a tunnel full of gun smoke, John stopped shooting. To cover his brother's hoped-for retreat, he said (loudly),

"I've just decided that violence is not the way, considering we have a friend in common. How about flipping a coin? Best two out of three."

Stirling had by this time completed his turn. He was dark haired and thin-faced, with a pair of back-lit, pale grey eyes. Beneath what looked like a high tech smart-suit, his body was strangely proportioned; too long in the arms and legs, and quite broad in the chest.

After a moment, John recalled where he'd previously seen that kind of thing: superhero shows and computer games. Weird, that what looked all right in CGI, triggered unease in real life. To hold the cyborg's attention, he asked,

"Don't suppose you're in the mood to negotiate?"

As intended, Stirling focused on him, saying,

"You've fired 18 rounds, off center. There are two bullets left in the sidearm."

"Yeah. Smith-and-Wesson insurance brings peace of mind, and I'm a naturally suspicious guy."

Behind the cyborg, a cracked LED panel began to flash.

'_Tracy 5.0 has not moved,'_ it reported.

Shit! Why the hell not? Didn't the idiot realize he was being given a chance to run? Worse, Five couldn't discharge enough power to do any good, with Alan so near. Before John could gesture or call out, Stirling spoke again.

"We have no one in common but Genovese, kid. She asked me not to kill you, once."

John shook his head. Hell of a way to juggle relationships, but a new plan had occurred to him, so…

"Yeah. I seem to recall a similar conversation. Guess she has... um… wide-ranging tastes in men. Listen, though, how about a compromise? That little pain-in-the-ass you're chasing is probably ten miles away by now, in the back seat of a police cruiser. Why don't you save yourself time and legwork, and take me instead? Hostage-wise, I work on three levels: Tracy Aerospace, NASA and International Rescue. One-stop shopping."

Thinking, _"Move, Alan. Get the hell out of range, __now__!" _John waited for Stirling's response.

"I can still catch him," said the assassin. "And there's power enough to deflect your last two bullets, then tear you to screaming bits."

"…Which would be monumentally stupid, even for you. Last time I checked, that 'screaming bits' thing takes awhile. So there I am, hours later, in a disarticulated heap, our mutual lady-friend is pissed beyond reasoning with, and both of your hostages are long gone. Do the math, genius: you lose, again."

Stirling's gaze was fixed and unblinking as a snake's, his face almost perfectly still. Then, unexpectedly, the cyborg dredged up a smile.

"You make a good point, kid. Prove that you're serious by throwing away the sidearm."

Alan was frozen with shock, or else injured. Either way, he wasn't budging. Now, John had no choice but to lure Stirling back down the tunnel, giving Five room to work, and Alan a safety margin. He beckoned his opponent forward, but Stirling refused to be drawn away.

"Throw away the sidearm," he repeated, with the toneless persistence of a traffic-bot.

John's heart began slamming around in his ribcage. This was a mistake, a _big_ damn mistake, and not part of the plan. He'd promised Penelope a live cyborg, and his father a still-breathing youngest son, though.

Shrugging like it didn't matter, John put the pistol back on safety and then tossed it aside. Stirling was upon him in moments. He was seized with head-snapping force, whirled round and smashed into the concrete wall, his arms jerked violently backward and cuffed tight. Then (hurt a lot, hard to talk about) strong metal fingers crushed his right knee, ensuring that this hostage, at least, could not possibly run.

Amid a chorus of shattering lights and flipping breakers, Stirling hoisted John off the ground, then hurled him ten feet down the corridor. He landed in a skidding, tumbled heap. Something else broke, but John was too numb to much care. Stirling crossed the distance between them to lean over him, still smiling slightly.

"Like you said, kid… insurance brings peace of mind, and I'm a suspicious guy."

Reaching down, the cyborg seized a handful of bloodied dress shirt and jerked his new hostage clear of the floor. To whatever was popping out the light fixtures and short-circuiting all those wires, he said,

"We're going to the nearest recharge bay, and then to DC. If anything strange happens, he dies."

It was then… almost too late… that Alan Tracy began to move.


	30. 30: Control, Alt, Delete

Edited.

**30: Control, Alt, Delete**

_The Cornell-west power and water tunnel, upstate New York-_

Alan huddled where he'd taken refuge, behind the corner of a grimy, humming, dimly-lit tunnel. A mingled stench… rats, rust and his own oozing blood… choked the boy's nostrils. There was a crazy pulse in his ears which combined with the uneven sawing of his own breath to block out most other sounds… until the gunshots, that is.

He'd stopped moving because he simply couldn't go any further. The leg-irons were tightly fastened, their binding chain short and dense. Each abbreviated, lurching step had chafed at his sprained ankles until they swelled and bled. And that wasn't counting all the times he'd tripped and fallen, distracted by the noise of heavy, pursuing footsteps.

Chris Springfield must've gotten away clear because their kidnapper, for whatever reason, had decided to follow Alan. Worse, he was catching up, though the 15-year-old did his level best to hurry. Finally, unable to force another step, Alan had found a slight alcove and secreted himself therein, trying earnestly to melt into dust and rust and shadow. By this time he was all but frozen with pain and exhaustion.

Then came what sounded like John's voice, and a storm of rapid gunfire. But… his older brother was still on the Moon, right? Maybe some well-armed maintenance guys had blundered onto the scene, or a state trooper.

The gun stopped roaring a few moments later, its barking, _spang-_ing echoes making Alan clap both hands to his ears, its peppery-acrid stench almost gagging him. He'd never fired a weapon in anger, only at paper targets and clay birds, or in stupid, loud, video games.

The echoes died and once again, somebody spoke. _Two_ somebodies (and for real, one of them sounded like John, though the words weren't clear). Alan's heart was thudding and flopping, jerky as a landed fish. If it _was_ John, please, please, _please_ let him have some kind of amazing hacker rescue plan, okay? Please?

Things got real quiet for a second, and then all of a sudden he heard a crash, and Alan's right knee hurt like crazy; like someone had swung a hammer at it. (Unbeknownst to the boy, he wasn't the only one feeling this. _Everyone_ that Five could access received a slim share of that crunching, fiery pain.)

_What the heck…?_

He forced himself upright, straightening his legs and using the gritty wall to brace against. Ignoring the pain from his swollen ankles and throbbing knee, Alan shuffled to the corner and had a peep around.

What he saw was a strange-looking man… Robo-lord, the boy guessed… dragging somebody back down the long corridor. The other guy was blond. One of his legs looked twisted, and he was dressed in smudged but fancy dress clothes; like a sharp business suit, but without the jacket. For some reason, although he couldn't see the hurt guy's face, Alan was all at once convinced that it _was_ John, not a cop or stray maintenance worker. All around them the lights were going crazy, sparking and buzzing like a nest of venomous wasps.

Alan could have turned and headed for safety. The kidnapper was now going back down the tunnel with his new catch, and an opening to the surface was, like, less than two soccer fields in the other direction, according to that '_you_ _are_ _here'_ map. He could've made it, no sweat (or not much). But, whoever Mechano-master was hauling off had tried to help, and now he was probably going to die, unless Alan helped back.

It was no easy thing for a shackled and terrified 15-year-old to force himself to follow a vicious kidnapper, but Alan did it. He crept slowly forward, doing his best to keep those leg-irons from rattling, then felt around till he found the still-warm handgun. It had been placed on safety; blue-grey, sleek and terribly heavy.

John actually liked the things. Given a choice between appearing in public naked or unarmed, he'd probably choose to go the embarrassing-nightmare route, reasoning that he could always grab for a tablecloth, but that a good weapon was tough to find.

Alan just swallowed hard and shoved the pistol in the deepest pocket of his torn pants. Maybe… hopefully… he wouldn't have to use it?

Newly armed, the boy shuffled after kidnapper and victim, falling behind almost immediately. There were occasional branches, turns and machine rooms to navigate, but Alan was being led. Five subtly adjusted the flicker rate of certain light panels to be subconsciously attractive, drawing the boy along a shorter path to the nearest recharge bay.

His knee was, like, _killing_ him. With each step, it hurt enough to make a football player cry, but Alan kept going. It was maybe fifteen, twenty minutes before he got to some kind of service-bot maintenance room, with a whole wall full of outlets at one end, and dozens of powered-down tools. Not much time to look around, though.

Hearing noises, Alan scooted over to a darkened robot accessway at the room's south wall. If anything came at him from behind… Well, it just better _not_, okay? No machines better be headed in for repair, right now. _Seriously_.

Robo-lord appeared from the human worker entrance. Up close, he looked really weird, like there was something distorted about his body and narrow eyes. And, yeah… that _was_ John he was dragging, pale and limp as a corpse.

The kidnapper wrestled Alan's brother over to the wall with all the power outlets, and then did something strange. He pulled up part of his own metal-threaded shirt to reveal, not flesh, but shining steel. The guy was a cyborg? Part machine? Then… maybe he'd come here to charge up. Maybe his batteries were low, or something.

Alan watched from hiding as the kidnapper opened a panel on his metallic torso. There was a universal port inside, like the kind at the rear of a printer or CPU. Keeping tight hold to the back of John's neck (breaking-the-skin tight), the cyborg pulled a grey power cord off of its wall hook, and attached it to one of those outlets, or tried to.

John couldn't stand up very well, which meant that the cyborg had to support him. Meanwhile, everything in the maintenance room around them was clattering, humming and sparking; small, wheeled robots rolling back and forth in fits and starts, LEDs burning out like cheap Christmas lights. Somebody, or some_thing_, was very much mad.

The cyborg spoke, saying to John,

"Stand up straight, kid, or the other leg goes, too. Understand?"

After a long, blurry second, the astronaut nodded. He looked… numb; shocked. Managed to shift position a little, though, causing Alan's right knee to explode with renewed agony.

(Elsewhere, Grandma Tracy clutched at her cane, cursing that damn arthritis. TinTin Kyrano massaged her own suddenly balky knee, fighting back puzzled tears. Gordon Tracy woke up at last; gasping like he'd been punched… and Penelope Creighton-Ward fell to the floor of her jet, crying aloud. Even Scott, Virgil and Jeff were afflicted, though not so badly.)

As the cyborg plugged in one end of his power cord, then brought the other to his torso recharge aperture, Alan fished around for the captured pistol. He hurt too much to think straight, or easily find the weapon, trying three pockets before scoring at last on cold metal.

He brought the pistol up and aimed it, just like he was shooting aliens in Halo-4D. Talked to himself:

_'Pull the trigger… c'mon, just pull the trigger… you can do it…!'_

The cyborg was about to plug himself in and recharge, but… Alan couldn't bring himself to fire. Not even to save a life, could he take someone else's. The gun's muzzle wavered as Alan called himself every scathing name he could think of.

_'Pansy! Wimp! Traitor! John's gonna die! Pull the dang trigger, coward!'_

The concrete room began blurring around him, water-colored by sudden, hot tears. He still couldn't shoot, so Alan stooped for a piece of metal… part of an old engine cowling or something… and threw that, instead. The bit of flat steel flew like a Frisbee, striking the cyborg's extended 'John' arm with a sharp _clang_. For just an instant, slowed by low power, the machine-man was distracted.

As if warned and waiting, John twisted loose, kicking forcefully enough with one leg to fall slightly away from the cyborg. It was then that Five struck, arcing a sudden blast of electrical power through the cord and across space to Stirling's body, knocking the assassin unconscious. He crashed, jerking, to the floor.

Alan was already moving. Forgetting the stupid leg-irons, he almost fell, but managed to recover and hurry forward. Babbled something dumb, like,

"S'okay, John… it's me! I'm here!"

Then, he grabbed his brother under the arms and started dragging him away from the fallen, sparking killer. Didn't get very far, though, because John was heavier than he looked, and not in a position to help much. Alan paused for breath, hearing all these weird bubbling, choking noises from the cyborg.

"Help me up," John grunted, trying to sit.

Together, they managed to lever him to a pained, clinging-to-the-wall, upright stance.

"Thanks. Get me… get me the gun."

Alan was shaking like a terrified kitten, and bitterly ashamed of himself for it. Stirling had turned blue, his half-open eyes tarnished and dull as drowned coins. Offline and unconscious, he couldn't breathe; was slowly asphyxiating.

"Take a walk," John told him, when Alan handed over the gun. The boy hesitated. Plucking at his brother's torn sleeve, he said,

"You're not going to shoot him, are you?"

John shrugged Alan aside.

"Shut up… and get the hell out of here. Move!"

"But, John…"

_"Now!"_

Alan stumbled away, feeling tears come that he couldn't prevent, any more than he could stop what his brother had to do. The younger boy shoved his hands against his ears, but he heard the noise, anyway. Shots; two of them.

Okay, he was incoherent and half-blind when he turned and hurried back for John, whom the handgun's mighty kick had flattened. Once again got him upright, carefully not looking over at the... mess.

With John's arm around his shoulders, and the broken leg between them, the two brothers began hop/shuffling across the room to Cornell-west.

"You're crying," John pointed out a few minutes later, between gritted teeth and painful limps.

Alan shook his head 'no', while attempting to dash tears from his eyes with a shrugged-up shoulder and turned face. When he didn't say anything, John added,

"There's no more… danger from… Stirling. He's, um… he's dead. Not a threat. Why… are you… still scared?"

Alan hated himself for being so weak as to obviously, publicly break down, but he still couldn't answer.

"I guess… you think that… that I missed?" John reasoned aloud. "Because… _(unf!)_… I didn't. I'm… a good shot. It's over. Problem solved."

Sure. Alan opened his mouth to agree, but to his horror, what came out was the truth; a tumbled flood of anxiety, shame and fear. Even worse, out came his own shock at John's cold-blooded act, back at the recharge bay.

"Why'd you have to _shoot_ him?" Alan protested, even though he already knew. "Couldn't you just tie him up and call the police?"

A faint, wry smile touched his brother's bruised face.

"Didn't… shoot him just because… _(unh!)_… he was dangerous. Shot him… because he… was already dying... the hard way. Couldn't risk… turning his systems… back on, again. No way to… to save his life… without risking ours. And if… dad doesn't get you back… one piece… I'm screwed. He'll… resurrect me, somehow… just to kick my ass."

Funnily enough, Alan found himself calming; kind of like the way that their hop-and-shuffle progress had settled into a steady, even rhythm.

"You think dad likes me better?" the 15-year-old asked, curiously.

"I think he likes… constipation, stalled traffic and… damn _migraines_ better. Always has."

A few minutes later, Alan remarked bravely,

"Well, I like you. Not that, um… you'd care what I think, or anything. Just saying, is all."

John was saved from having to respond by the sudden appearance of their exit, a ten-foot wall ladder to the surface; thirteen rusted, water-slick steel rungs affixed to crumbling concrete.

Alan started forward, but his older brother stopped cold, shaking his blond head.

"No. Can't do it. You go ahead. I'll just, um… sit here and bleed. Any other time, sure… piece of cake. Now, it's goddam Everest."

Alan (hobbled by his circulation-hampering leg-irons) wasn't much better off, but he tried to rally his brother's spirits, anyhow.

"It's okay, John. I'll help. All you gotta do is pull up with your arms. I'll do most of the pushing from behind you, and I won't let your leg bang on the wall, _promise."_

John's face was bruised, dirty and abraded; tense with anticipated pain.

"You've got to be kidding me. There's no way in hell I can climb a damn ladder. Not like this."

But Alan insisted. Maybe he was determined and bold, or maybe just too scared to go on alone.

"Seriously, man. You can do this. Just pull with both arms and push with your good leg. I'll be right behind you the whole way."

John usually avoided eye contact. It was an almost physical shock when his blue-violet glare struck Alan, and he said,

"If you drop me and I fall, I'll probably die, but not before I knock you through the damn wall. Got it?" Loaded with cuddly charm, John Tracy. Sweet as a dewy spring morning.

"Uh… yeah. Got it. But I won't drop you, John. Not after the way you left the Moon just to come find me. I won't let you down."

John looked at him for an instant longer, and then reverted to his normally blank, averted manner.

"Okay," he said, and the matter was settled. Maybe you'd think it was weird to hear this, but they were friends, after that. The business with that pregnant horse… and the other thing with Lady P… never came up again, ever.

Moving forward, they positioned themselves in front of the wall ladder, down in the pool of red light from its exit sign. John reached up as high as he could and took hold of a slightly flattened, flaking-wet rung. He _had_ to go first, both because of his leg, and because he had some kind of eerie lock-picking skill. Things just… _opened_ for John, like pretty women just fell for him.

"This is going to hurt like hell," he muttered.

Taking a deep breath, the astronaut heaved himself upward, pulling his skinny body high enough to get one foot onto the bottom-most rung. The twisted leg dangled, but Alan, true to his word, held it from bumping the ladder.

Next began a wild, frantic and pain-blinded scramble; punctuated by harsh grunts and savage cursing. Felt like it took forever… like he and Alan had, in reality, climbed six miles high.

John's head and shoulders were out of the manhole and into the tunnel access shed before he realized they'd come to the end of the ladder. One badly-scratched palm to the outer door sprang its electronic lock, courtesy of Five.

_Free_. Night air rushed in as the door slid open, wintry cold and smelling of fallen leaves. A last burst of energy got his upper body onto the surface. The rest was sheer, kicking and punishing torture. They made it, though. They made it.

Nice night, too. Starry, with the zodiacal gleam just showing over somber-dark tree-tops. John and Alan lay on the forest floor for awhile, hearing sporadic auto noise from a distant road. When he could speak again, John said,

"Hey, um… thanks."

Every muscle Alan possessed, his right knee and both ankles, hurt like blazing crap, but he smiled.

"Any time. We're brothers, right? We're _supposed_ to do stuff together. Like, y'know, escape a deadly robot-lord and climb up the ladder of doom."

"Builds character," John agreed.

They were in serious trouble, though; John badly injured, Alan shackled, in the bitter cold, back-of-beyond. It would mean publicly exposing John Tracy as an International Rescue agent if he was found here, so far from the rest of the Ares crew. Yet, they couldn't just hide. Both brothers were in desperate need of assistance; pale, bloodied and crushed like soda cans.

Wracking his brains for a plan, Alan reached over and patted John's shoulder.

"Hang on, man. It's gonna be okay. I got a feeling that something's gonna happen, soon."


	31. 31: Alternate Reality Check

**31: Alternate Reality Check **

_Southern Spain-_

They were dropped off in pairs, at judiciously spaced intervals. The plan (such as it was) was for each set of doctors to infiltrate a different neighborhood or village, bringing their high-tech medical supplies to the local hospital. Other teams were being positioned in France and Monaco, with similar gear and instructions.

Cindy chose to go with Sharon Floyd, as she and the part-time operative were already acquainted. More importantly, the doctor's forged credentials would get her where she very much wanted to be: inside a developing crisis. Yes, she was nervous. The prospect of ugly, lingering death loomed chillingly close, here, as it hadn't back in New York. But racing up to the edge of disaster and coming away clean (with footage, no less) was her _job_.

Cindy Taylor and Sharon Floyd were inserted just after local sunrise, some two miles outside of La Marquessa. The barrio was fair-sized, according to John Tracy's information, and possessed a desperately stressed clinic.

As they hurried up the crooked Paseo Grande toward Clinico San Isidro, Cindy donned a white air mask, then reached into her handbag and adjusted the digital camera lodged within. Through a small port in the side of her purse, the camera could shoot 1500 hours of video. Change memory sticks, and she'd have 1500 more. A good thing, as it happened, for this was Broadcast Journalism Award stuff: Crowded folk shivering on the steps of the clinic, waiting their chance to enter… grim ambulance crews… exhausted, chain-smoking policemen… and a floodlit parking lot covered with morgue tents.

Dr. Floyd didn't enter the clinic immediately. Instead, she crouched on the stone steps beside a semi-conscious young woman and began to examine her, all the while reassuring the four small children who clung close alongside. Her Spanish was high school level, at best, but no one really minded the halting speech. All they wanted was help.

Cindy looked on, filming from the neck down as Dr. Floyd assessed the sick woman's condition then placed and activated a medical smart patch. Maybe the clinic administrator would welcome IR's assistance, and maybe not, but as many people as she could see in the meantime would survive this thing, while Cindy recorded it all.

A slow, reluctant sunrise had replaced the parking lot's flood lights by the time Sharon Floyd and Cindy Taylor made it through the clinic doors and into the jammed building, but the worst remained before them.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3's passenger lounge, overflying the Oregon coast-_

Scott Tracy had been jolted awake by what felt like the flare-up of an old injury. Having ejected from a crashing jet on two previous occasions, the former fighter pilot had suffered damage to knee and back that Hiram Hackenbacker had cured for him. Supposedly.

Until, in the midst of a dream about trapdoors and razor-edged Tetris pieces, had come this fiery blast of pain. Very much awake now, the handsome, dark-haired young man unstrapped from his couch and got up. He tested the leg cautiously before putting any real weight on it, but the knee held; sore, if relatively sound. No evident swelling or stiffness…

"Have to get Brains to take another look," Scott muttered aloud, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. "Could be tendonitis, or something."

After a brief stop at the head, he limped his way forward, entering the brightly-lit cockpit to find that they'd passed the coast. Those were mountains flashing past, below. Big ones.

"You were supposed to wake me up," Scott complained, lowering himself into the copilot's seat and strapping in.

"Too busy," Jeff Tracy replied, eyes on his instruments. "And you needed the rest. On the bright side, I've managed to set up a rendezvous with USAMRID. They're going to meet us at 12,000 feet in the protected airspace over Fort Detrick."

Scott mentally sifted aircraft and tactics.

"Harrier V?" he guessed, liking the fighter/bomber's hummingbird-like hover mode and flashing speed.

"Exactly," Jeff nodded, concealing a tired yawn. "They'll come alongside, as close as wingspan and turbulence allow, then accept the handoff. I'll do the flying, son. You pass the care package."

Scott was already visualizing the transfer, going through the steps in his head. Nothing Rube Goldberg; two open hatches, a precision-fired line, and then the viral samples, slid across in a sealed capsule. He and John had delivered insulin to a space hotel that way, once, when a young guest had gone into sudden, life-threatening shock. Ought to work again, he figured.

A very tired Jeff transferred control of Thunderbird 3 to Scott, saying,

"I haven't heard anything from Lady Penelope… from John, that is… but Red Path hasn't contacted me, either, so in this case, no news is probably good news."

"Yes, Sir," Scott agreed, settling his headset more comfortably. "I'm sure John's got the situation under control."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_New York State, in the dim, cold woods by a tunnel access shed-_

Weird. His eyesight was okay, mostly, but John had trouble identifying some of the Earth-side smells and sounds. It had been _that_ long.

He'd had a tee-shirt back in college that read, "_Reality: still waiting for the patch", _which about covered the situation, then as now. He lay on his back on chilly, uneven ground with a knee that was highly worrisome because it should have hurt _more._ The damn thing had been shattered, and John knew that he should have been rolling-around, mouth-full-of-blood crippled… except that for some reason, he _wasn't_.

This, combined with a very slight warmth at his left wrist, told him that Five had reactivated his ID chip. Bad news, and dangerous, besides. He could sort of feel her in there, adjusting things; shifting probability as well as pain. As the tee-shirt had put it, patching reality.

Over head, dark pine branches swept the sky, partly obscuring Orion, though not his belt. Alnitak, Alnilam and Mintaka… the names of the belt stars were as good to repeat as they were to look at. Especially since you couldn't see Eta Carinae from up here. Too far north.

…And entirely beside the point. John knew that he should have stopped Five's activity. That even a minor probability shift, here, would result in major randomness, elsewhere. Anything from floods, crashes and accidents to missing (and forgotten) persons. Alone, he might have set off without the quantum entity's interference. He might have made a crutch from a tree limb, hobbled to a clearing and then signaled for pickup, but he had Alan to think about, too. His youngest brother was nearby, trying to rise despite a pair of swollen and tightly chained feet.

"Relax," Alan was saying. "It's all good. I was in Cub Scouts for, like, six months, and they taught us how to light fires and make branch splints. I'll have us all set up and comfortable in zero-to-nothing, watch me."

Sure. Simplest thing imaginable, if the wincing boy had been able to do more than bite his lower lip and shuffle like an old man. Watching Alan's slow, determined progress, John experienced the same uncomfortable sensations he got when he talked to Janie. A kind of halfway-familiar warmth and protectiveness, maybe.

Whatever. The upshot was this: ignoring his better judgment, John accepted a few 'changes' for Alan's sake. One was that his own injury lessened from a pulped and twisted knee to a ripped tendon and cracked patella. As for the rest…

"Listen, before you wander off, check the access shed. I thought I saw a pair of bolt cutters, when we climbed through."

As John said this, it became fact. He really _did_ remember the long, pincer-like cutters, leaning up against a water-stained wall. One handle was slightly chipped, and the heavy blades a bit rusted, but… yeah; there was that can of WD40 in there. He suddenly recalled that, too.

Alan paused.

"You sure?" he asked, eyeing the distance between himself and the concrete access shed.

"Yeah. Pretty sure."

…And there'd be hell to pay, later, because of it.

"Go get them, and I'll help you out of those leg irons." John continued. "We need to hurry, though, because this isn't a safe place."

Alan dropped the one stick he'd so far managed to collect. Nodding vigorously, the boy turned and began shuffling awkwardly back toward the shed. Meanwhile, John actually managed to sit up, hugging himself a little against the wind's icy slap.

The shed door creaked, banged and then opened again, discharging a triumphantly dusty Alan.

"Got 'em! Plus, some guy must've left his lunch, because look what else I found." Besides the heavy cutting tool, he held a hinged metal box with a domed lid and plastic handle.

"There's food inside," the younger Tracy explained, when John didn't immediately reply.

They wound up sharing stale peanut-butter and jelly, a bag of Doritos and a can of cherry soda. (Water-falling on this last, because John would not drink after anyone else but Scott. And then, only sometimes.)

"Think we ought to leave some money behind?" Alan asked, spraying a moist cloud of Doritos bits. "I mean, we kind of stole the guy's lunch, right?"

John shrugged, carefully folding the chip bag into quarters.

"I'll order pizza for the entire work crew, tomorrow; but all I've got on me is a couple of hundred-dollar bills, and we're probably going to need them, soon."

Alan stopped chewing, surprised, maybe, that John had taken the question seriously. Then, he swallowed in a hurry and said,

"Yeah, that makes sense. Everybody likes pizza. Get Hawaiian, because ham and pineapple on tomato sauce is, like, maximal."

Wrong, but not worth arguing about. Not in the midst of all _this._ When their supper was ended, the bolt cutters sheared Alan's leg-irons like a machete slicing dry straw. His manacles were snapped off at their locking bolts, freeing the boy's gashed and puffy feet. Afterward, Alan did the same for John's remaining handcuff (the dangling other having been stripped off and tucked away inside his shirt-sleeve). So far, so good. The tough question was: what next?

He had two-hundred dollars, an emptied pistol and a bad leg, together with a wrist comm which could be too risky to use, and a vanished ex-girlfriend who might be too angry to listen. Yeah.

If she _did_ respond, though… if John could somehow talk her into coming back… the way out was obvious. There was a road nearby, and Parker was a good enough pilot to land there. But everything hinged on Penelope. She'd abandoned him for some indecipherable reason having to do with his wife, Janie and Stirling. And, while John was no oracle of the female species, it didn't seem likely that Penny would leap to re-enlist, once she learned that her cyborg friend had experienced a permanent systems crash.

Heartened and fed, Alan stopped rubbing at his ankles long enough to help John up.

"What now?" the boy asked; positioning himself to brace his brother's hurt leg. He looked… hard to say… expectant, or something; like he thought the astronaut had a sack full of ready answers.

Oh, well… life and quantum theory were full of uncertainty, and everyone else was too busy to help. No real choice but to hit the wrist comm and hope that Lady Penelope was more loyal to International Rescue than angry with _him._

"We'll head for the road," he told Alan, resetting his wrist comm, then tapping out a brief message and pressing _send._ "Penny can reconfigure her jet to land there, once you've put up some cub-scout runway lights."

"Cub sc…? Oh, _yeah!_ Fires on either side of the road! I can do that."

They left the area at a cautious limp, having returned the bolt-cutters and lunch box to the access shed, and turned off its small light. No sense giving away their presence. Not yet, anyhow.

One other signal John sent, because he _had_ to; a quick, coded message meant to fry the core of his laptop, left behind when he'd surrendered himself to Stirling. No way to go back for the valuable thing, nor could he risk having it captured. Instead, John destroyed it; tapping out numbers while trudging through an obstacle course of jagged rocks and tree roots.

They weren't far from the road when Penny replied, with a text message even shorter than his.

_'Coming back. Signal to provide coordinates. P.' _

He stared at the text for a bit, frowning slightly. Was she angry? Back in Kansas, when they'd lived on McConnel Air Force Base, and dad was away a lot, his mother had taken him three days a week to see Miss Eddings, who always had candy and did things like show him pictures of people's faces.

"What are they feeling?" she'd ask.

If she mixed them up, he didn't do well, but when the pictures were arranged in a line, from broad grin to deep scowl, John could usually say of the faces at the ends: "_There's candy, so she's happy", _or… "_He's mad at me", _or… "_That girl is afraid, because there's a big dog behind the camera, and it's growling at her."_

The pictures in the middle were initially harder to guess, but John soon discovered that 'surprised', 'hurt' or 'confused' were accurate about seventy percent of the time, resulting in praise and candy. All he'd had to do was work out a system.

Here, though, he had nothing but text to work with, and not much of that. Had Penny changed her mind? Was Five in the driver's seat, again? Or was the sometime operative bent on revenge for Stirling? No way to tell.

Like the pictures in the middle, he was just going to have to guess, and hope that seventy percent was good enough.


	32. 32: FollowOn Effect

Edited.

**32: Follow-On Effect**

_Thunderbird 2, San Marco Island, late afternoon-_

Gordon David Tracy woke to a very different world than the one he'd fallen asleep in. For one thing, at the time he'd lost consciousness, he'd been strong; a trained and finely-honed athlete. Now, he couldn't lift his head or stir a finger without major, draining effort. The, he'd had a team, a coach, a best mate and a worshipful girlfriend. Now…?

Well, he recognized the big, faintly vibrating crew cabin of Thunderbird 2; knew that he lay upon a drop-down bunk, but could not have told you who it was that poked, examined and assessed him, just then (though she did seem familiar). Female, perhaps 37 years old, wearing a white breath mask and blue coverall, with brown hair and eyes, and an air of professional reserve quite at odds with her running commentary to… Was that a _child_ he heard?

"In a minute, Kara Jane! Mommy's busy. Play with Auntie Cho and Miss TinTin, please."

"But, _Mommy…!"_

The woman (a doctor, it seemed) turned her head in the direction of that petulant little voice.

"Kara Jane-Ellen Tracy, _hush!"_ And then, to her befuddled patient, the doctor said,

"You're awake? Good. Can you tell me your name?"

A short question with a simple reply, once Virgil turned up to nod approval.

"It's okay, kiddo," his older brother confided, reaching out to place a hand upon the swimmer's broad shoulder. "She's family. This is John's wife, Linda. In fact, his kid and the whole Ares crew are here, except for Captain No-Show, himself. Long story short, you're clear to respond."

…And Virgil wouldn't lie, or be threatened. He looked a bit rough (pale and unshaven) but unworried. So, taking his cue from the pilot, Gordon blearily shifted focus back to Linda.

"My name is Gordon Tracy, Ma'am," he whispered. "Pleased t' make y'r acquaintance."

"Linda Bennett," she replied, unbending enough to smile a little. The expression raised the edges of her breath mask and crinkled her brown eyes. "…Or Bennett-Tracy, I suppose I should say. The little noise-maker, over there, is your niece, Janie. Back to business, though... how do you feel?"

A real poser, that.

"Well enough t' be up and about soon, I should think. But if you'd not mind looking in on them, I'd like t' know how my teammates're bearing up, back in Madrid. They were a touch ill, when I left."

A truly prize-winning understatement, which drew little response from his doctor. Beneath the mask, Linda's mouth pursed. Reaching for her stethoscope, she said,

"They're just fine, I'm sure. The important thing right now, is _you._ Take a deep breath for me, please; the biggest you can manage."

Right, then. Lying upon a narrow bunk beneath wavery lights, attended by his brother and new sister-in-law, Gordon inhaled as bidden. He worried, though, about McMahon, Royce, Anika and the rest; wondering what condition they were in and who, precisely, was seeing to _them._ He wasn't to be let alone with his thoughts, though.

Imperious small Janie prodded TinTin into raising her higher into the air, all the while banging on about gravity, or some such. Noisemaker, indeed. Believe it or not, Gordon welcomed the distraction, which temporarily chased off a bruising mass of concern.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Wharton Private Academy for Young Men, in upstate New York-_

A cadre of Secret Service agents (apparently sent by Sam's mother) had appeared from seemingly nowhere. Like corporate drones from pick-your-favorite-action-movie, the dark-suited men had yanked Samuel Nakamura, Daniel Solomon and Fermat Hackenbacker clean out of Langley Center and back to the school library, a more defensible spot.

Fermat would have contacted his father, if one of the grim agents hadn't stolen his phone… or Alan, if he'd had any idea where the older boy even _was._ Of course, there was always the wrist comm, but Fermat hated to use it before strangers, even supposedly safe government types.

Casting a few quick, nervous glances at their cordon of guards, the boy sidled closer to his friends Daniel and Sam. They, too, had been thinking.

"Guys, I bet we could distract them, somehow, and make a break for the steam tunnels," pudgy, blondish Daniel suggested, his voice breathless and whisper-y. "When we were coming up here, I could swear I saw police cars gathered out by the admin building. Someone _there_ will know what's going on, and better yet, they'll be talking about it."

"Y- Yeah," Fermat agreed, relieved at the thought of a genuine plan. "And from the… s- steam tunnel vents, you can hear ev…"

"Forget it," snapped a Secret Service agent, without even turning around. "You wouldn't get three steps, and I'd rather not have to explain to 'Shogun' why all three of you are tranquilized and handcuffed to chairs. Understood?"

Fermat's blue eyes grew very wide behind their smudged glasses.

"Wow," he murmured, mentally hopping back to square one. And if there was an indefinable sense of loss… of abandonment… Fermat barely knew how to express it, or react. After all, unlike Sam and Daniel, he'd never known a mother.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Upstate New York, in the pre-dawn, chilly forest-_

Except for that leg thing (his knee still, y'know, _hurt)_, Alan was pretty psyched. When you hung out with John, things had a way of working out; even kidnappings and cyborg trouble. The actual walk wasn't easy… what with roots, rocks, low visibility and all… but Alan had this crazy feeling like he'd captured a charmed item in Final Fantasy XXV, and couldn't be harmed. Strange, huh?

Anyways, he braced his brother's stumbling retreat through the darkling wood like a man; no whining, no complaints. And, little by slow, they made it to the road. Not that there was a whole lot to see. Just two lanes, plus about 6 feet of gravel shoulder on either side with no street lights. Tight fit for a plane, maybe, but if anyone could land there, his name was Parker and he had a big nose.

Would have been nice if tight squeezes were the night's worst problem, but there was also a kind of ditch thingy between the two injured brothers and their makeshift runway. From where he stood squinting, Alan guessed it to be about 4 feet deep, steep-sided and choked with a barren tangle of frost-killed plants. _Great_.

Alan darted a glance at his beat-up older brother, who stood there like he'd just been confronted with a level-200 Zombie Wizard.

"Okay, it's not _that_ deep," the younger boy lied, raising his voice to be heard over moaning wind. "But, um… if you want to, we could maybe walk south a ways and look for a bridge, or something."

John shook his head morosely, grunting,

"No. The alertness tabs are wearing off, and all the sugar cubes are gone. I'm crossing here, or nowhere."

Once again, John was actually _talking_ to him, and not in a "sit down, before you hurt yourself," kind of way, either. In a "you've finally joined the club," way. So…

"No problemo, dude. I'll start first," the boy told his brother. "You put your hands on my shoulders, or something, and come down after. But…" he paused when another thought struck him,

"…What if a car comes along? Hit the dirt, or yell for help?"

"Hide," said John, inching along after Alan. "Unless it's one of… _dammit…_ one of us, I can't… afford to be… seen here. Too… recognizable, after the Ares mission. Or... if it's law enforcement...you could flag them... down, but don't say... anything about me. I'll, um... stay behind... wait for later pickup."

"Okay, gotcha. Hide, it is. For both of us."

Those twisty vines and old, sapless sticks were slick with frost and sharp with thorns. Before they'd gone more than a few steps, Alan and John were so branch-whipped, dirty and cobwebbed that no one in their right minds would even have slowed down for a second look, much less stopped. Or else they'd have run off the road from sheer fright…

Close to the bottom, John tripped over an unseen snag, badly wrenching his damaged knee. Gasping, he lurched up against Alan, who almost fell, himself. The younger boy had to do some desperate twisting and clutching to keep hold of John, because the astronaut's reactions were, like, _noticeably_ slow.

"You okay?" Alan panted, when their scrabbling half-fall got them at last to the bottom of the ditch. "John…?"

"Yeah. I'm fine."

_Sure._ Standing calf-deep in frigid muck, with a hedge of broken sticks and brittle ice shards all around him like a dang palisade, his brother was frickin' peachy.

"…Cause you look kinda tired."

Possibly, John might've snapped something really rude, but a sudden noise from the road drowned him out; the low, throbbing growl of an engine, with four tires crunching stealthy-slow against frost and asphalt. A car. Not just driving along, but _prowling,_ its headlights dimmed halfway to gone.

It was then that John did something really dang stupid. He reached out and yanked Alan behind him, almost collapsing them both in the process. Okay… like what was gimpy, there, supposed to do? Cuss the bad guys away?

_Nuh_-_uh_. Seemed like, as a first bit of grey dawn began lapping the tree line and that car rolled to a quiet stop, Alan would have to handle things, himself.


	33. 33: First Light

**33: First Light**

_High in the air, above Fort Detrick-_

Maryland had been a place of rolling, wooded hills, watered by gentle streams and quiet springs.

_Had_ been. Now, in this time of altered probability, little real food and massive population, it was entirely urbanized; part of the vast, east coast metropolis that spread clear from New York City to Miami. Only the odd government installation retained some green, defending a few trees and fish-stocked ponds. Everything else was a tangle of high-rise office buildings crowned with helipads and lapped by crumbling slums, the lot stitched together with alleys, interstates and (for the privileged) comfortable mid-air tube rails. Not a good situation, yet people continued pouring in from the ash-dry Midwest, convinced that there was safety in numbers.

On this particular morning in early December, all air traffic had been grounded for a hundred miles around Fort Detrick, and the Army's IT folk and intelligence analysts were on high alert. They were expecting visitors with whom the US military had an extremely uncertain relationship: International Rescue.

Yes, on one level, IR could be very useful. Many times, the Thunderbirds' mysterious sentry had helped coordinate military search and rescue operations, locating downed planes and sunken ships… but on the other hand, with the top brass and politicians, International Rescue remained stubbornly uncooperative. The olive branch had been extended, however, and onto it was fastened an offering; Dr. Kim's precious viruses.

At the appointed time, a single, sleek aircraft lifted off from Fort Detrick; a Harrier V fighter-bomber with a highly trained, three-man crew. It shot directly into the air from runway 90, thunder-loud, lightning-fast and radar-invisible. Precisely at the prearranged coordinates, Captain Hart switched to hover mode, bringing his plane to a screaming, juddering halt some 12,000 feet over the base. From this height, buildings and cars faded into the city's lumpy grey scab, and streetlights wove cobwebs of gold. The sun was rising (or, this side of the Earth was rolling towards it; take your pick).

Captain Hart looked about, scanning his surroundings with narrowed eyes and sharpened instruments, but saw nothing at all.

"Where the hell are they?" he snapped, off-comm. No sense broadcasting uncertainty.

"Unknown, sir," Lieutenant Calvin replied, glancing up from his sensor screen. "I'm getting nothing, over here. Try the code phrase?"

Hart shrugged. He'd been chosen for this mission because his unit had once gotten talked through a vicious magnetic anomaly by International Rescue. Presumably, somebody'd thought he had experience with the rogue organization, and would know how to deal with them.

_Right._ Their IR contact man had been terse and icy-calm, talking Hart's squadron through the worst white-skies-disturbed-weather-and-GPS-blackout they'd ever seen. There hadn't exactly been time to get chummy. Still, someone upstairs felt that Hart's presence would matter, so here he was, watching the dawn and hunting for shadows.

Holding the dart-shaped fighter perfectly steady, Captain Hart keyed in his comm and said, dryly,

"Better living through chemistry."

The effect was instantaneous and impressive. One moment, there was nothing visible through his plane's canopy but festering cityscape and gathering clouds. The next, something very large de-cloaked beside him like a Klingon Bird of Prey, only rocket-streamlined and brilliantly red. Despite himself, Hart gasped aloud. He hadn't even…

"Shit!" yelped Lieutenant Calvin, his head whipping from sensor panel to canopy and back, again. "Switch…" (Short for 'Switchblade', the pilot's handle) "…that thing's as big as a damn house, and it doesn't even _register._ Nothing but direct visual contact, here, and not even that, according to base. Cameras are picking up _zero_."

"Yeah…" Hart responded, his mouth suddenly dry (not because of the canned air, either). Out-classed and out-snuck… probably out-gunned, too… all that the Army pilot could do was to clear his throat and proceed as ordered.

"Good morning. This is US Army DT-101, launched from Fort Detrick, Maryland. International Rescue, I presume?"

The long ship glowed fire-red with reflected sunlight, somehow just hanging there without downdraft or excessive turbulence. _How in the hell…?_

A voice responded to his hail; digitally altered, but crisp and serious, all the same.

_"This is Thunderbird 3, Captain Hart. If you're ready, we'll begin the transfer."_

Great. On top of everything else, they knew his name, and could probably report what he'd wolfed down that morning for breakfast. (Scalding-hot coffee and a cheese Danish, as it happened… but the matter never came up.)

"Um… Roger that, sir. We're in place and ready. I'll have my gunner open the side hatch."

The coordinates he'd been given had placed Stephen Hart's aircraft directly beside Thunderbird 3, even with some sort of airlock. Addressing his gunner, Lieutenant Garrity, Hart said,

"Proceed with phase two; let's open up for tea and cookies with the Avon Lady, peoples."

Aft about ten feet, Cherilyn Garrity shook her helmeted head. Steve could sometimes be so damned _stupid!_ Men, you know?

"Understood, sir," she sighed, rechecking her tether, chute and safety harness. "Opening the emergency hatch… _now."_

It took a punched-in code to spring the Harrier's side door, and a very bold woman to lean out of it, clinging to the hatch frame with one hand while wind and cold and engine-thunder swirled all around her.

Worth it, though, because there was the IR spaceship, not 50 feet from Garrity's current position. On the other side, someone had done the same thing, splitting a black gap in Thunderbird 3's crimson hull.

A tall man stood framed there. Like herself, he was helmeted and air-masked, but his coverall uniform was sky-blue with white boots. Not very practical, but as far as Cher knew, International Rescue wasn't a fighting unit, so perhaps the odd fashion statement didn't matter.

At any rate, the man waved at her, and Lt. Garrity gave him a quick thumbs-up, in return. Next she stepped aside, as he first mimed firing a line, and then actually did so. The spring-loaded hook-and-cable hissed across the space between them like a parabolic snake. It landed just inside the Harrier's open hatch, rattling against the deck before clinging tight as silvery Velcro.

Cher Garrity was able to remove and reposition the hook, which seemed less magnetic than adjustably adhesive. Good stuff, whatever it was.

Once she'd fastened the line properly, Lieutenant Garrity signaled her Avon delivery man with an energetic wave.

_"Good to go!"_ she shouted, though wind and engine noise snatched the words away.

He signaled back, just as a shrill, howling alarm went off within the hovering fighter. Startled, Garrity nearly lost her balance and fell. Somehow, improbably, they'd been target-locked.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_La Marquesa, Spain, around nightfall-_

Inside the clinic… Hardened news-hound, or not, Cindy had to control her breathing and focus on infinity to keep from losing her nerve. Even through her face mask and newly-donned hazard suit, the presence of disease was overpowering, nauseating.

They'd pushed through the clinic doors to find patients huddled literally everywhere, dying medial staff scattered among them. The air throbbed with racking coughs and quiet, bewildered pleas. Not that these last were easy to hear, for the clinic's public address system buzzed loud and long, as though someone had passed out unconscious against the switch.

Meanwhile, people stumbled through halls and crowded waiting rooms, dazed with illness and ruin. It looked, sounded and felt like the end of the world, and as Doctor Floyd waded in to help, Cindy uttered something that shifted wildly between cursing and entreaty. Then the reporter shifted her purse, freeing both hands. The camera inside would get whatever it got. Right now, Doctor Floyd needed assistance.

"What do you want me to do?" Cindy asked the scowling physician, whose face softened a little at her words.

"Help me to find the hospital administrator, hold my bag, and start handing me smart patches. We'll use them as long as they last, and then… well, one thing at a time. If you know any good, effective prayers, though…"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Upstate New York, near dawn, in a muddy, roadside ditch-_

The prowling car had stopped. Its engine cut off, and three doors first opened, then slammed. Very faintly, John caught the tail-end of a muttered question, and then heard swift, quiet footfalls. Worse, the warm pulse at the back of his wrist grew to a fiery lance, then died altogether as Five deactivated his ID chip to prevent tracking. Thinking,

_'Shit,'_

…John let go of his younger brother and reached for the empty pistol, doing his best to stay upright. His heart was racing. Every nerve and fiber he possessed seemed to end in a tiny, blazing spark, making everything… the icy mud, snapped-off twigs and silhouetted trees… jaggedly clear and immediate.

Alan shot him a quick, strange look that he didn't know how to interpret. Then, whispering,

"Stay here and keep low, I'll be right back!" Alan darted off, flailing his arms, grunting aloud and doing his level best to sound like two fleeing men. The footsteps paused. Then, they changed direction, paralleling the ditch instead of climbing in.

"This way, John!" Alan hissed theatrically, pounding and shaking the withered foliage as he ran. A few seconds later, he answered himself, grunting a pretty fair imitation of his brother:

"Shut up, Alan. Until you line up a ride, this is as fast as I go."

_Real names._ That stupid kid was going to get himself caught, and reveal who they were in the process. _Damn it!_

The stranded astronaut tried hobbling after his certifiably lunatic brother, until pain and a sudden thought stopped him short.

_The car._ What if they'd left it unguarded? Could he sneak up there, John wondered, and then hotwire the damn thing? Pick Alan up somewhere down the road and then floor it like hell for the nearest airport? Only one way to find out.

Taking a deep breath, John reached up and out, seizing a double handful of dried branches. Then, setting his jaw, he scraped up a little more energy and forced himself to climb out of that ditch.


	34. 34: Paid in full

Edited.

**34: Paid in Full**

_Upstate New York, in a dawning, awakening wood-_

Alan Tracy bounded through the withered underbrush, ducking barren branches and hurtling slippery rocks. In the process (deliberately) he made a tremendous, unnecessary racket. Not only did Alan slap the trees and branches that he passed, but he carried on a loud and enthusiastic 'conversation' with his brother, John, leading their would-be pursuers deeper into the forest.

His leg had stopped hurting him, allowing the boy's surfer athleticism full play. That, and a truck-load of adrenaline, kept him running and talking at full speed. It was kind of funny, but speaking as 'John', he could be highly, inventively profane, even throwing in a few of Gordon's best phrases when not listening behind himself for the sloppy smack of leaves and cracking of broken twigs.

At first, running wildly uphill, Alan didn't care how loud he breathed, because drawing attention was kind of like his _goal._ All good things must come to an end, though; even games of really serious freeze-tag.

In the water, when a wave came along that you'd rather not deal with, you grabbed your board and duck-dived, letting it pass safely overhead while the sea surged in your ears and clawed at your nostrils. Here, Alan did pretty much the same thing. Once he figured that he'd lured the other guys far enough, he hit the nearest patch of scrub and buried himself in damp, mildewy leaf litter. (Something he'd seen in a movie, once, though he'd have to check himself all over for ticks and chiggers, afterward. They never mentioned _that_ in Hollywood.)

The guys thundered past him a few minutes later. Alan counted three of them; one scrawny, pasty-faced geek type and two regulation-sized pistol apes, all of them armed, bruised and angry.

Alan held his breath and tried not to shiver, or worry about spiders (like, he could just about feel them crawling around in his blanket of soggy leaves, looking for a nice, juicy bite of Alan). The gunmen never noticed him, though, blundering straight on past and over the crest of the wooded hill. Obviously, _they'd_ never done time in the cub scouts.

Alan gave them two or three minutes, listening hard. Then, when nothing happened, he shook off his limp-black, moist coating and rushed back the way he'd come, only _quietly,_ this time. His breath misted the air. The forest seemed to jump and lurch in time to Alan's broken, crouching run; a no-brainer, because it was all downhill.

See, he had a plan. The Wharton access road lay in a kind of valley between two big hills. Ought to be easy to find, right? First the road, then the ditch and John… except that things didn't work out that way.

As low, slanting sun beams began sifting through the trees, and Alan slithered his way ever downward, the two-lane highway came into sight. Before he could celebrate, a grey sedan appeared, moving fast and weaving erratically.

The driver's side window was busted out, and the satellite radio was blasting, tuned to a California surf report. John; it _had_ to be. Who else would think to call _'Alan, over here,'_ in such a weird-butt way?

Sensing escape, the boy rose from his half-crouch and ran for the road, waving both arms overhead. The grey sedan screeched to a halt, engine choking and steaming, tires slipping on wet asphalt.

Alan hurtled into the ditch, scaled the other side and then pounded five feet up the road to that waiting grey car. He didn't bother with the passenger door, but went directly to the driver's side, where his ghostly-pale wreck of a brother sat hunched over the wheel.

"Scoot over!" Alan panted, jerking open the heavy door.

"What…?" John didn't seem very focused.

"I said, scoot over, dude! _I'll_ drive."

"Drive?" John repeated, like Alan had suggested a meal of dog food and pencil shavings. "Hell, no. You don't even have a license."

But Alan pushed his way into the car's glass-spattered interior, forcing John to haul himself over to the passenger seat; a major, tooth-grinding ordeal. Alan shoved him along, insisting,

"I got my learner's permit just last month, smart one. Meanwhile, you're driving a stolen car like it's ten bottles past New Year's Eve, so shut up and frickin' _scoot!"_

Ordinarily, John would have put up more of a fight, but he was in pretty bad shape; disoriented and hurting. Needless to say, Alan won the argument, and a seat behind the wheel.

Okay… let's see… brake, gas, shift lever… keys? Uh-uh. No keys, just a popped steering column and a couple of dangling, twisted cables. Now what? John, grunting, leaned over and did something funny to the blue and red wires. The car's engine coughed once, then turned over, and just like that, they were back in business. Alan put her in drive, and hit the left turn signal.

"GPS," his brother whispered, indicating the car's routing screen. "Head for the old Hudsonville Airport. Penny's meeting us there."

Alan was focused on driving… letting out the brake while smoothly depressing the gas pedal, pulling cautiously onto the road… but he managed to nod.

"Airport; got it. You gonna be okay, John?"

(He was too busy to look over, but concerned about his slumping, mud-and-bloodied older brother.)

"Yeah. I'm good."

There were lies, and there were outright, jaw-dropping whoppers; this was one of _those._

"Hey… when you were, um… trying to sound like me…?"

"Uh-huh?" Alan prodded, nervously checking his rearview mirror for, like, the millionth time. Nothing there, though. No lights, cars, or pursuing gunmen. "What about it?"

John took a minute to collect his blurry thoughts, and then asked,

"I curse that much?"

This time, Alan took his eyes off the curving road long enough to gaze at his brother.

"Uh… _yeah._ 'Fraid so, dude."

"Damn. Got to find a less… stereotyped response."

Despite their situation, Alan grinned at him.

"Uh-huh. Good luck with that. Seriously though, bro; shut up and get some rest. You look like the boss from 'Creeping Dead 3'."

Naturally, John flipped him off, but sort of smiled while he did it. Before he'd quite finished slumping into the seat and deep unconsciousness, Alan asked him a question.

"John… any idea what's going on with Cody and Chris? We're friends, and I'd like to find out if everything's okay, or if I need to send them some help. John?"

Unfortunately, his brother had cast off the mooring lines and was already drifting away. He _did_ manage to grunt,

"Hospital,"

…before losing consciousness entirely. After that, Alan focused on driving far and fast, rolling down the windows to keep alert and hide the break-in damage. From time to time he looked over at John, who slept like the dead, twitching whenever a spear of pain touched him through the layers of enveloping dark.

Alan increased his speed, reacting to his brother's condition and the GPS screen's subliminal prompting. He reached the airport after 45 minutes of determined driving. It was late morning, still cold, and Alan's face was frigid-stiff from all that blowing wind. He pulled up to an automatic gate, which screeched aside despite the big yellow 'closed for repairs' sign.

A nudge to the gas pedal sent the vehicle creeping past a shuttered building, through the chain-activated gate and up to a weedy airstrip. Lady Penelope's jet was already there, together with an unmarked patrol car. Alan took a deep breath. Reaching across the car, he tapped his densely unconscious brother, and coasted to a slow stop.

"John, we're here," he whispered, but his brother didn't move. Moving stiffly, Alan crept out of the car and slammed the door, then limped around to the other side.

A New York Highway Patrolman left his unmarked cruiser about the same time as Parker got out of Lady P's waiting jet. Both wore uniforms, though the driver's was grey, and the officer's, green. The trooper sported a blond buzz-cut and mirrored sunglasses, but he wore a wrist comm and gave Alan a swift signal. An operative, thank goodness. Sergeant Stewart, according to his name tag.

"Hey guys," Alan greeted the approaching men, switching course to meet them halfway. "John's in the car. He's kind of tired, though, so if you could help me get him to the plane, I'd appreciate it."

A drink of water and a bathroom would have been nice, too, but one thing at a time, right? Parker smiled at him.

"Chin up, Mister Alan," said the driver, his seamed, old prize-fighter's face crinkling pleasantly. "Y've won through with naught but a scratch or two. There's a brave lad."

Yeah… except that he wasn't really worried about himself. John was the one needing serious medical help.

"Thanks, Parker, but it wasn't me that did most of the brave stuff. I just got kidnapped and rescued."

They walked around to the passenger side. There, Parker and Stewart opened the door and carefully extricated John. The astronaut didn't awaken. But, given the sorry shape that his leg was in, this was probably a blessing.

"Be that as it may," Parker continued; _whoof_-ing a little as he and the patrolman lifted John, "Y' done yer bit in a right vexin' situation, lad, and yer both alive because of it. Now, 'tis time fer me and 'er Ladyship t' do _ours_. We'll 'ave Mister John, 'ere, delivered ter 'is folk in a trice, whilst Officer Stewart sees t' gettin' y' back ter school."

Alan nodded, trailing behind Parker and Stewart as they maneuvered John across the cracked tarmac and into Penelope's jet. He felt a little useless; unable to do or say anything really helpful, but unwilling to leave.

The plane was nice inside, all leather seats and golden fixtures. Lady Penelope didn't look so good, though. Her eyes were too bright and her face was blotchy. Worried about John, maybe? Or mad because he'd run off to Mars? Alan cleared his throat to say something, but the elegant operative cut him off with a raised hand. To the boy and Officer Stewart she said,

"That will be all, thank you. Once you've placed him in the rear chamber, you have my leave to depart."

'_Just like that, huh? And have a nice day, yourself, Chica.'_

John was deposited on a bed at the back of the plane, where Penny wrapped up the worst of his hurts, her touch abrupt and almost angry. The astronaut stirred, but Alan was hustled out the door and off the plane before he quite awakened. As usual, Parker wasted no time and very few words, forcing Alan to catch at his uniform sleeve for a moment's attention.

"Um… you'll keep an eye on him, right? He's gonna be okay, and everything?"

Parker paused before the jet's boarding stairs.

"Don't worry yer 'ead, Mister Alan. Ee'll be as safe as 'ouses, never you fear. 'Erself as 'er moods, t' be sure, but she loves 'im, just th' same."

Probably not the best of all strategic times to bring up the fact that John was married, with a _kid, _even. Maybe later, when he was safely healed up and out there on tour, promoting NASA. Instead, rather anxiously, Alan said,

"It's just that I'm worried about him. He's not the only brother I've got, but he sure gets into the weirdest crap. Lands in trouble more often than _I_ do, know what I'm saying?"

Parker's tired smile broadened slightly. Removing his cap, the driver rubbed at his own thinning grey hair.

"Of that, Mister Alan, Oi'm very well aware. Like mindin' ruddy Jean Valjean, 'tis, except fer th' odd 'oliday, now and again. 'Er Ladyship's quite taken with 'im, though, troubles or no."

Jean Val _who?_ And which holiday? Christmas? Because there wasn't likely to be much celebrating after dad got through chewing them out for their kidnap and cyborg disaster. As for his mom, back in southern Cali… she preferred not even _hearing_ about his 'not so nice' adventures. They disturbed her chi, while John's mere presence gave her quivering fits. Strange, huh?

"Okay… just fly safe, and when he wakes up, tell him I said to hang loose. No, tell him I said 'thank you'."

"Oi'll certainly pass on yer message, lad. And 'ave a safe trip yerself, young Sir."

Moments later, Parker was back in Her Ladyship's private jet, pulling up the boarding stairs. Officer Stewart's firm hand at his shoulder drew Alan off the runway.

"Come on, youngster," the patrolman said, giving his teenaged charge a friendly shake. "We need to get moving, if we want to have you positioned for safe 'finding' by one of the search teams."

"Yeah," Alan agreed quietly, slumping a little beneath Stewart's broad hand. "Guess you're right."

But he stayed long enough to watch the jet roar to life, gather speed and take off. Just like Fermat, he felt strangely uprooted. It was like… like something very deep and well-hidden had suddenly shifted course, leaving them all high, dry and stranded.

_High in the air above Fort Detrick, Maryland, and under attack-_

As alarms rang through the cockpit of Thunderbird 3, Jeff Tracy upped their Shadowbot coverage and shouted,

"Captain Hart, you're about to disappear! Do not, repeat, _do not _disengage!"


	35. 35: Crossfire

Majorly edited, at last.

**35: Crossfire**

_Thunderbird 3, in the air over Fort Detrick, Maryland-_

Rocked by blaring collision alarms and Captain Hart's shouted questions, Jeff flung Shadowbot coverage and a tenuous force field over the hovering fighter-bomber.

_"You're about to disappear,"_ he'd said, which the Army pilot took precisely the wrong way. Once Hart had confirmation from Lieutenant Garrity that IR's virus package was safely aboard, he shouted,

"Hang on for evasive!" and jerked the stick hard right. His aircraft broke away from Thunderbird 3, firing a cloud of metallic chaff to confuse that on-rushing missile. Didn't work.

Cockpit alarms grew shriller in both craft, as Hart attempted this way and that to dodge. But the missile, clearly visible now, had regained its deadly lock.

"Damn it!" Jeff snarled. Out of options, the former astronaut did the only thing he could think of; he dropped all coverage from Thunderbird 3, revealing what he hoped would be a larger, more attractive target, just sitting there like a big, red plum.

_"Dad, what the hell's going on?" _Scott called from below. Jeff didn't answer. Instead, he stared at the rear view screen, muttering,

"Come on… come on… _turn!_ This way, damn you!"

No such luck. The streaking projectile did not veer. Riding its plume of boiling flame, it slashed through the air toward the fleeing Harrier. Forgetting how visible… how vulnerable… he'd left himself, Jeff Tracy throttled wildly forward, sending Thunderbird 3 rocketing after the twisting, darting fighter. Ground and sky switched places a dozen times as Jeff hurtled along, putting the red Bird through maneuvers that would have given Brains heart failure.

Seconds later, with a bass roar and bright flash, the Harrier V erupted, lighting the northern sky like a second, fiery dawn. One parachute… two… where was the other? Where in Heaven's name was the third crewman?

Before Jeff could spot another blossoming chute, he received a pair of simultaneous transmissions. One was public:

_"Well done, Thunderbird 3. The decoy and destroy mission has succeeded. Return to base."_

The other was private, sent over International Rescue's emergency helpline:

_"Never forget that our watchers are everywhere. No matter what you attempt, you shall not divert the coming scythe."_

Hearing this, Jeff Tracy was quite literally sick. Had there been anything in his stomach, he'd have thrown it all up. That gloating, familiar voice… the same one who'd threatened to…

Unable to take any more, he switched off 3's receiver, using his wrist comm to find Brains, while still searching the cloud of smoke and debris for signs of a camouflage parachute.

_"M- Mr. Tracy?" _the engineer inquired after a moment, peering at him through the tiny screen, _"What c- can I, ah… can I do for you?"_

Jeff tore his eyes away from the front scanner. Three chutes, now; he was sure of it. Had one of them saved the package, though?

"Brains, I need you to have Dr. Kim access whatever notes and journals she wrote on that curing virus, and email every bit to…" _Who had he missed, first time around?_

"…Have her send a copy to the acting World President."

Hackenbacker nodded; the blue eyes behind his spectacles dark-circled with weariness.

_"Will d- do, Mr. Tracy. Shall I also, ah… also send c- copies to Springfield Pharmaceutical?"_

"Good thinking. See to it," Jeff agreed, once more punching up a Shadowbot cloak. Godspeed to the drifting parachutes, but Thunderbird 3's continued presence would be more of a risk than a help, possibly drawing further terrorist attacks. He had to wait until Scott was back in the cockpit and strapped in before hitting full speed, so Jeff fired off orders, instead.

"Brains, I want our encryption methods gone over with a damn microscope. Find out if there's any way we could be overheard… any possibility of a traitor… and if so, slam the door. Understood?"

_"Y- Yes sir, Mr. Tracy. I'll, ah… I'll get right on it. Is everything okay over there?"_

How many operatives had they taken on these last few years? Fifty? A hundred? Any one of them might be a turncoat, or any several. Jeff shook his head.

"No," he said. "3's delivery mission has just been sabotaged by our Red Path admirers, leaving us looking like double-crossers, but unharmed." So far, anyhow.

_"H- How did they…?"_

Jeff cut him off.

"One thing at a time, Brains. My priority at the moment is damage control. I want you to issue an immediate public statement denying any responsibility for the destruction of Army property. Inform the world that IR was as much a target in all this as USAMRID."

Brains' tiny image frowned, its face taut with unanswered worries. In a low, quiet voice, he said,

_"B- Before I can frame an adequate response, s- sir, I'll need more specifics on the, ah… the Red Path assault."_

With a few rapid keystrokes, Jeff transmitted 3's log. Then, hoping for better news, he asked,

"How are Virgil and Gordon?"

Brains glanced away from the streaming data.

_"B- Both boys are, ah… are conscious and r- recovering, Mr. Tracy, though Gordon remains in g- guarded condition. Oh, and I've received word from operatives in upstate New York that Alan and John have b- been safely retrieved."_

Jeff breathed a long, deep sigh. He and God were no longer on speaking terms, but he was grateful, none the less. Scott entered the cockpit. Nodding to his eldest son, the man continued,

"Good to hear, Brains. What about the Springfield boy?"

_"A- Also found, Mr. Tracy. On the other hand, there's, ah… there's grim news about a friend of theirs who evidently tried to fend off the kidnapper. He sustained multiple injuries, and is, ah… is hospitalized."_

Fort Detrick launched a dark horde of aerial scout craft, but Jeff was already in motion. With a flick to throttle and stick, he sent Thunderbird 3 hurtling upward; vaulting through the filmy blue veil of sky and out into starry space. Safe from pursuit, now, he said,

"Keep tabs on the other boy's condition, please. Brains. Whatever he needs in the way of advanced care or insurance coverage, see that he gets, up to and including a trustworthy medical operative. I'm on my way back. Tracy, _out_."

It was only then, really looking for the first time since Scott had sat down, that he noticed the young man's bloodied uniform and clumsily bandaged hands.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_In a cloaked and modified jet, racing west across America-_

For quite some time (never mind how long) Five had sat by the narrow bed, holding one of his hands in both of her captured 'own'. Penny was in there, as well, once more inadequately squashed.

She was healing him, her energy fields passing through his body like a scanning wave, to warm, repair and align. There wasn't time for much conversation, as Five had to maintain focus to project herself here. She did so using the machinery of another universe; parallel-parked in a slantwise dimension, so to speak. In this way, breath after heartbeat, he got better. Back, at least, to believable shape for a newly returned astronaut.

The light shifted, shadows moved and their plane rumbled onward, heading away from the dawn and back into nighttime. Eventually, Five looked at him with Penny's blue eyes and said,

_"John Tracy, the analog life form Penelope Creighton-Ward can no longer be restrained without incurring severe damage to its core programs. This entity must receed, or fatally harm the Creighton-Ward shareware."_

Figured. They'd caused more than enough trouble, already; more than he wanted to know about, so...

"You'd better go," he said, giving her borrowed hands a brief squeeze. "Keep an eye on Alan for me. I'll talk to you, later."

Had Parker keyed up the right security monitor, just then, he'd have seen Lady Penelope lean over to kiss her paramour's cheek; not an unusual sight… but further attention would have revealed something surprising. John Tracy retrieved his hand and sat well up by the time the young noblewoman regained control of her mind and body.

She came back to herself like a desperate swimmer breaking the surface. Gasping and wide-eyed, Penelope clutched at the nearest solid object, which in this case was John.

"What has happened?" she demanded, leaping to her feet. "The last thing I clearly recall is receiving your summons, and now…"

Penny darted angry looks around the plane's luxurious sleeping cabin, then back at John.

"I find myself here, having sleep-walked my way through your evident triumph and retrieval. How, pray, did you manage that?"

Not a great beginning, though (as usual) John managed to worsen it. He shrugged.

"I don't know. Maybe you're tired."

"Of _course_, I'm bloody well tired!" Penny exploded at him, blonde hair working loose of its chignon to swing violently free. "All but dropping in harness, actually, as anyone would be who found themselves coping with _you!_ Now… before I summon Parker to heave you through the damned boarding hatch… what happened? What have you done to me, and to Stirling?"

Weirdly, Penelope was about as beautiful, then, as he'd ever seen her. There was a kind of electricity about her, in dangerous situations, that he'd always found deeply attractive. A smarter man would have found some way to express this, but the best John could come up with was,

"Well… your pet cyborg was going to kill me, which is one thing, but Alan was in danger, too. So…" (It seemed very much wiser not to mention Five) "…We defended ourselves, and Stirling was fatally injured in the process. Parker said that you had some kind of fainting spell just about the same time. There's not much else to tell, but I'll say I'm sorry, if that's what you want to hear."

"I see."

Whatever her feelings, Penelope retained most of her composure. After a moment or two of staring at the cream-colored bulkhead, she added,

"It seems that I've lost you both, then… much as I've lost whatever credibility I once had as a free-lance assassin."

Her voice held something that sounded like tears, so John tried his hand at encouragement.

"You couldn't have kept playing both sides against the middle forever, Penny. Sooner or later, it was sure to blow up in your face. On the bright side, at least International Rescue doesn't kill double agents, and…" (Stupid, maybe, but there was still that pull between them.) "…I won't tell what I know, if you promise to stay away from other employers, and not to try for dad, again."

Lady Penelope stiffened.

"What business is it of yours, if I seek to comfort your poor, bereft father? After all, you've quite taken yourself out of the running, with your child and, er…"

"Dr. Bennett," he supplied, helpfully.

Penelope raised a delicate eyebrow, her face lit by the cabin's overhead lamp.

"You know, dear, you might think about referring to the creature by her Christian name, considering that she's succeeded in capturing… that is, _wedding_… you."

"Linda," he mumbled, pushing the covers off, "and she didn't exactly capture me."

Five had once co-opted the doctor's body as she'd done to Penelope, causing Linda to act on a long-buried attraction to John. He hadn't expected that, or the resulting pregnancy, either, but he damn well intended to do right by woman and baby, both.

Penelope offered him a hand up. Still rather weak, John accepted it and shakily rose to his feet. They faced each other in the gently vibrating sleep cabin; the woman sleek and lovely, the man worn and sore.

"Let us make a pact," Penny whispered. "I shall promise to be civil to this 'Linda' and do nothing _deliberate_ to lure your father, if you will take oath to keep silent about my dealings with Red Path."

Any other time, John might have balked, but things were actually looking up. His knee was a little stiff, but he could stand upright, now, with weight on both feet. For this reason, and because of their past together, John accepted her offer.

"Okay, deal. But if you get too close to dad, I'll have to try warning him off."

(Like his father would listen, even if he said: _"Watch out, dad. Penny's a screamer, and sometimes, she bites."_ Yeah. That'd work.)

Penelope smiled, though, saying,

"At which point I shall sit down to have a nice, long chat with darling Linda. Have we a truce then, my dear?"

"Sure," John grunted, all at once wishing he'd let Five remain where she was, program damage or no. "Truce."

They'd barely shook hands on the matter when Parker's image appeared on the cabin comm screen.

_"Beggin' yer pardon, Milady… but y' might wish ter 'ave a look at this."_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Spain, at the desperately crowded Clinico San Isidro-_

Sharon and Cindy found what they were looking for in a packed examination room. The clinic administrator was a burly man, but pale and shaken and drenched with sweat. He and one last nurse remained conscious and capable… in a manner of speaking. With fever-bright eyes and cracked lips, they seemed nearly as ill as the folk whose lives they'd shored up and those whose dying they'd eased. Neither sought assistance for themselves, however.

Using her pitiful high school Spanish, Sharon told them that she worked for International Rescue.

"Hola. Soy una doctor de… Trabajo por Rescue Internacional, senor, y estoy aqui para… por ayudarse. Um… por favor."

The doctor managed to nod, but his gaze was as fixed and far-off as a dead man's. Cindy helped him to sit, while behind her the stout, broad-faced nurse said,

"Is not important, us. Help _them._"

With a vague wave around herself, the staggering woman indicated all of the many people who'd crowded her clinic's halls, labs and offices.

"They have come to this place seeking refuge, but there is none. Help them, please."

Dr. Floyd murmured a comforting response. Fishing through her supply bag, she turned up two last smart patches, supposed to be reserved for herself and Cindy, just in case.

Pulling them out of the bag, Sharon glanced over at the pretty reporter, who nodded, once. The doctor smiled grimly. Her own med patch she'd have given away without a thought, but not Cindy's. For a move like that, she needed permission. Got it, too. People, even media types, picked the damndest times and the oddest ways to become heroes.


	36. 36: Exonosis

Everytime, it's the little things that get you. Thanks for the reviews, though.

**36: Exonosis**

_An altered jet, speeding westward-_

Parker had called them forward, interrupting an awkward exchange between John Tracy and Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward, once lovers. Together, they left the aircraft's rear cabin and hurried up front, where Parker replayed a publicly broadcast message:

_"Well done, Thunderbird 3. The decoy and destroy mission has succeeded. Return to base."_

There was video, too, of a Harrier V fighter-bomber being blown out of the sky.

"That's bullshit," John grunted, lowering himself into the copilot's seat and snagging a headset, "Why would IR destroy the pick-up plane when _we're_ the ones trying to transfer cargo? Anyone with the IQ of shredded cabbage could see through that one."

Or, so you'd think. The military was reacting as it usually did when attacked; violently. According to the data John collected, Fort Detrick was launching wave upon wave of drone aircraft and helijets, while emergency ground crews pulled their downed personnel off of building cornices, roofs and light poles. Nice. Before he could contact his dad or the base commander, a second message came through, this one live.

_"Never forget that our watchers are everywhere. No matter what you attempt, you shall not divert the coming scythe."_

Right. John wasted no time commenting on their assailant's lousy dialogue. Instead, squinting against bright, high-altitude sunglow, he acted. Penny's jet had a much larger than normal onboard system, multi-cored and scorpion-quick. _His_ doing, because at one time, they'd been partners. Now, barely leaving Parker sufficient memory to fly with, John bypassed the computer's defenses and got to work.

First, he traced the signal, using a netstat command to find the originating server and map out all linked boxes. From there, it was short few filtering steps to determination-of-target. He'd already memorized the permanent IP addresses of several suspect computers; that Washington Vaio, for instance, and two insecure WorldGov mainframes. All he had to do was mentally overlay their networks. Who contacted more than one of these computers, plus the signaler, and who did _they_ link to? Which cell phones and ID chips did they accept commands from?

Typing away at the plane's keyboard, talking himself through a series of careful questions, John began visualizing a 3D network map, like a spherical, branching fireworks display. Some of the traces were innocent. They didn't lead anywhere that touched on a suspect node. Some zigzagged away to probable couriers, sleeper cells and deep-cover operatives. One led to Penelope, herself. _Damn_. Of course, he knew that she'd played both sides… but the obvious, clear-as-glass reminder was hard to take. Somebody else might have said that it hurt. Whatever.

"Penny," he called aloud, reaching backward. She was very much there, hovering just behind his seat. Now, the operative placed her left hand in his, getting a brief, habitual squeeze for her trouble.

"What is it that you require?" she asked him, maintaining an almost-even tone.

"Just your hand," …andwhatitcontained He'd uploaded something to her ID chip, back on the Moon; a small and virulent code. Penny had no idea, naturally. John told no-one _everything,_ not even his brothers. So Lady Penelope squeezed back, saying,

"And why, precisely, is my hand now desirable? It cannot be for money or love. You are wealthy beyond my means, quite firmly spurned my earlier proposal, and are married, besides. Why, then, this change of heart?"

_What change?_ The source of confusion was probably obvious, but John was too busy to work it out, just then. Too irritated, as well.

"Stop talking and hold still," he told her. "I need to scan your chip into the reader."

Penelope's hand turned all at once stiff and rejecting, curling to a fist in John's grip.

"But... I see," she whispered to his silver-blond hair and calm profile.

He didn't hear. There was a work of art on her ID chip, _vbs_._whiplash_. More prion than virus, all it did when activated was reconfigure the status of targeted individuals, resetting their chips from 'healthy/ normal' to 'fatally ill/ infectious', and their citizenship from 'good standing' to 'dangerous criminal'.

A few keystrokes transferred this small, dire code, allowing John to pat the hand of his beautiful Trojan horse, and then turn her loose. Penelope retreated, but the freed virus shot like poison through the branching, covert network, nailing each identified agent, from a lowly drink steward at WorldGov headquarters, to the new master of Red Path. No matter who they were... which street or hall they sped through... the screens and kiosks around them went crazy, flashing immediate biohazard warnings and summoning security.

In Vicente Vargas' case, all of the many billboards which lined his escape route converted at once from tea and seafood adverts to shrill red warning signs. An automatic barricade and tire spike panel sprang up, forcing his driver to brake, hard. The limousine fish-tailed, punctured tires smoking, rims sparking. Inside, Vargas was hurled against his seatbelt. The limousine smashed against a concrete divider with force enough to shatter windows and crumple the long hood. Surrounded by gathering fumes, Vargas reached forward to press the call button. Before he could demand an explanation, something else struck.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_San Marcos Island, aboard Thunderbird 2-_

TinTin Kyrano held an impatiently squirming toddler against her blue biohazard suit, soothing the girl with word and thought, alike. Calming her. An adult might have blocked TinTin's presence. Small Janie seemed to welcome it, almost as though she were used to the guiding touch of another mind.

"Hush, petite… softly. Maman is working, but shall swiftly return for her little jewel."

Janie's nose wrinkled, sudden laughter flashing through her like a rush of bright bubbles.

_"NOT_ mommy's jewel! Unca Pete says I'm his _STINKER!"_ Then, whining again, "what's mommy doing? Who's that? How come he's sick? Where's daddy? Do we hafta stay on Urf?" And, "I'm _hungry,_ Timpin! Janie hungry. Time to eat now, okay?"

How could anything this tiny be filled with so many questions? TinTin laughed gently in return, her gloved hand stroking the child's golden hair. In truth, she was enjoying contact with Janie's clean little "Froot Loops, hugs and strawberry milk" mind.

"Maman provides aid and comfort to your Uncle Gordon, who is the brother of ton pere. Gordon is ill because there are the people in this world who would do wrong and harm others, and they have made from the blood of maman et papa a very terrible sickness. Poor Gordon was accidentally tested upon in Spain, perhaps with a spray in the air, or tainted drink. Your papa…"

Here, TinTin hesitated. The child's mother was occupied with Gordon and Virgil. Doctor Kim, a sort of maiden aunt, had been called away by Brains. Pete McCord and the big Marine, Roger Thorpe, had gone along, leaving TinTin to mind their baby girl. How was she to tell Janie of her father's mission? How could she explain, without frightening?

"Daddy's okay?" Janie prompted, searching TinTin's face. A little hand came up, trembling with the effort of fighting gravity. Touching the helmet by TinTin's cheek, Janie asked,

"Is daddy's okay, Timpin? You seed him? You could look for daddy, right, Timpin? You could look!"

Forgetting to ask how the child was even aware that such things were possible, TinTin bit her lip and considered. Perhaps… if she was swift, and very quiet…

Releasing her mental guard was akin to loosing a pent breath or relaxing into a tired slouch. One simply freed a different set of "muscles", bit by cautious bit.

Time and space were nothing; mere illusions which TinTin thrust aside as she put forth her mind in search of John Tracy. She felt him soon enough; rigid, bright and diamond-hard against a backdrop of mumbling people and gauzy machines. Was all well?

Having reached him, TinTin drew closer, shifting a bit of her awareness along the slim, pale link that bound them. He did not sense her presence, for TinTin did no more than listen, picking up those thoughts and concerns that were uppermost. Much there was about tracking the hateful Red Path and its fleeing leader, for John had already attacked in his own manner, using sharp, deadly codes. Curious, TinTin followed his thoughts to a crashed limousine, its outlines a hazy shadow in her extended vision. Burning against this tissue-fine barrier were two furious minds, one just a driver. The other…

Gasping, TinTin recoiled from thoughts too vengeful and bloody to endure. Evil, foul and relentless, he was. _Vicente Vargas_, an aide to Senator Stennis, who… Oh.

Filtered through Vargas' polluted memory, TinTin saw a flashing knife and twitching corpse. She shuddered. Lamar Stennis was dead, killed by the trusted friend who now controlled Red Path. _Long live the king._

Not that Vargas rested easy on his stolen perch. Rage, grief and guilt rose to assault her, as did horrible plans for her once-hostaged friends. TinTin clutched hard at the suddenly quiet toddler, whom she'd glimpsed in his thoughts, as well. Like a gushing toilet, he was; like something that had crept from a bucket of reeking sewage, given power and purpose. TinTin panicked.

_'Monster,'_ she thought, attempting to pull free. _'Release me!'_

Her mind was powerful, but untrained, and to the end of her days, TinTin would regret what happened next.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Upstate New York, in a north-bound police cruiser-_

Despite himself, Alan's eyes kept wanting to shut. He was dead-dirty-dog-_exhausted_ tired, the kind that came from running, hiding and non-stop worry. Okay, people who wrote stuff about the way-cool outlaw life were, like, retarded.

He sat in the front seat of a warm, stuffy car, beside Sergeant Stewart, a uniformed state trooper. The guy was nice and junk, but talkative as all get-out, with 900 boring stories about struggling oak trees and cozy petting zoos.

Alan's head nodded forward dozens of times, but he jerked awake anyhow because (unless you'd been beat to crap, like John) you weren't supposed to fall sleep on a mission.

Stewart had rubbed some kind of weird-smelling cream on Alan's hands when they first got into the car. To remove any powder residue from the gun, the boy had been told… but he really didn't want to think about what had happened. Whatever, that strange chemical smell and his own will power were the only things keeping Alan Tracy awake. But only just.

He wasn't sure where they were. Long stands of bare trees, branch-filtered sunlight and smooth jazz made it hard to pay attention to the route. Somewhere near Wharton, he guessed, for the big old school was the only place hereabouts with open, un-crowded land.

Time went by, and maybe he'd have fallen completely asleep, but something really confusing happened. Out of nowhere, the radio and dashboard lights began acting up, cutting off Wynton Marsalis to broadcast a loud, flashing alarm.

_"Warning! This is a public health alert. Please bring this vehicle to a safe and controlled stop at mile marker 47 and turn off the engine. Warning! This is a public health alert. Driver is unfit to operate vehicle! Authorities have been notified!"_

What the _huh_?

Startled, Alan shot wide awake in a dang quick hurry. Stewart didn't _look_ sick, so why was his car going frickin' insane? More importantly, why was he fumbling with the catch to his taser?

Alan didn't wait around to find out. He and John had talked some, back in the tunnels, enough so that Alan knew they were up against more than just a lone kidnapper. They faced Red Path and a weaponized plague germ, and all bets were off.

Spotting some people by the access road… searchers and newsfolk, looked like… Alan dodged Stewart's wild grab, shoved the passenger door open, and jumped out of a moving car. He tried to land on his feet, but it felt like somebody jerked the road out from under him. He fell hard, and tumbled.

Officer Friendly peeled out, leaving a scared, scraped and stunned kid gasping like a fish by the side of the road. People came rushing up with radios, cameras and search dogs, shouting stuff and pointing cameras in his face. And, believe it or not, just for a little bit, he started to cry.

11


	37. 37: All in Your Head

**37: All in Your Head**

_Thunderbird 2, in the rear crew cabin and another's dark mind-_

Power like this, without control or training, was a terrible blow. All she'd meant to do was free herself, with perhaps a bit of memory adjustment alongside. But the mind of Vicente Vargas was as dank and fetid as tar. It smudged, entrapped and dirtied her own, even as TinTin Kyrano fluttered and strained to escape.

His thoughts… those horrid things that he'd seen, done and desired… became briefly hers, nearly overwhelming the girl. Worse, he sensed TinTin's presence. Hearing words in his head that were not his own and feeling a surging alien panic, Vargas first recoiled, and then began to act, aggressively reaching for the source of this mental 'invasion'.

Bodiless here, TinTin responded the only way possible. She lashed out with uncontrolled force, attacking the oily-black tentacles which sought to entwine and detain her. These actions hurt, and their pain was reflected into TinTin as well, but she dared not stop, nor take pity.

With much wild flailing, the girl tore unprotected neurons and jammed synapses, shredding forever the pathways that led to knowledge and personality. Like dusty cobwebs she ripped through the essence of Vicente Vargas, destroying him in the process.

In the end, all that remained were faint images of Senator Stennis and a few gutted, sparking life processes. Without a gun, though he yet breathed and twitched in the back of that limousine, she'd killed a man. TinTin Kyrano was a murderer, now trapped in the very mind she'd savaged.

Then… perhaps small Janie touched her again, or spoke. At any rate, TinTin sensed a way out, following the brightness of that clean little heart up and away from this ruined other. Thunderbird 2… her biohazard suit… the squirming child in her arms… they all coalesced about TinTin, familiar and comforting as landmarks in thinning mist. Almost, she stumbled, putting a hand forth to steady herself, while the other clutched harder at Janie.

"Timpin, whatsa matter?" the little one asked, tugging anxiously at her blue hazard suit. "You sick, Timpin? You did sumpin' bad?"

She'd shaken her head at the first question, then burst into silent, wracking tears at the second. The blonde little girl's brow furrowed. Adult tragedies were beyond her comprehension, mostly, but she tried to help, anyhow, because everyone always helped her.

"It's okay, Timpin. Just say 'sorry' and you won't do it anymore, never again, _promise,_ then nobody won't yell at you, not even Unca Pete. I ated the fish food and I said 'sorry' and Unca Pete din't get mad. But I hadda not get any cereal, not for…_two… whole… days!_"

Janie placed both little hands on the helmet of TinTin's biohazard suit as she said this, gasping and leaning forward for added emphasis. To please her little friend, TinTin managed a nod, though...

Outside Washington, D.C., the approaching police units would find nothing but the scraped-clean shell of a man, while back in Thunderbird 2, poor, burdened TinTin would have done just about anything to set matters right.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Spain, the Clinico San Isidro-_

With help from Cindy Taylor, Doctor Floyd moved patients, made them comfortable and provided what treatment she could. The place was noisy, crowded and appallingly hot. Only their hazard suits protected the women from danger and lingering death.

They worked to the dropping point and beyond, because there was no one else available who could. Though risky, their determined action saved lives, plugging the gap between the clinic's collapse and the arrival of a CDC field team.

Sharon Floyd and Cindy Taylor crept off just before the newcomers turned up, having been warned by John Tracy that International Rescue were pariahs again; suspected of shooting down US military aircraft.

Once more, the two women resorted to cloak-and-daggery, burning their contaminated gear and disguising themselves beneath stolen shawls as they followed a crooked path out of town. It was a strange, shuttered, quiet place that they escaped from that day, filled with the sick and the hidden. Maybe their progress was watched. But if so, no one in La Marquesa made outcry, or troubled to call the police. Nor did those who eventually recovered have any description to give.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 3, drawing near Tracy Island-_

Jeff's plate… his whole table and sideboard… was full to bursting. Between kidnaps, disease, rescues, betrayals, attacks and accusations, the man had all he could do to see straight and fly. Now _this._

Scott had limped into the cockpit with a brand-new set of clumsily bandaged wounds, adding yet another straw to Jeff Tracy's load. The grey-haired man shifted in his seat, eyes narrowing.

"Son, are you…?"

Sitting, Scott winced, converting the expression to a smile when he noticed his father's tense face.

"I'm fine, sir. The aerobatics caught me off-guard, is all. There are a lot of, um… hard surfaces in the cargo hold, and I'm now on a first-name basis with most of them."

Well, at least he was awake and clear-headed enough to joke. Jeff smiled back, tossing his son a near-empty aspirin bottle. 'Rough day' didn't even come close.

"Thanks, dad."

Scott rose to fetch water, then opened the bottle and shook out their last few tablets.

"Anything else from Detrick?" he asked, once the pills were down and Jeff's terse explanation digested. "Did the Harrier crew make it?"

Said Jeff, switching restlessly from one comm channel to the next,

"I've been in touch with Natalya Camacho. We kept it short to avoid compromising her status with USAMRID, but she tells me that the crew was safely recovered. One of them… a female, evidently… managed to keep hold of our care package all the way down to the surface. The extra weight broke her hip and right leg, but the samples are still in one piece."

There was nothing on the view screen but star-pricked space and Earth's murky night side, but Jeff stared and scowled, regardless; free-associating like mad.

"In the meantime, a number of local news channels are running footage of Alan's escape and 'rescue'. He seems disoriented, likely to say _anything_, probably… I've got Leisha Bonaventure on the case, though. She's authorized to make pay-offs or threaten lawsuits to get your brother's image off the air. He's a minor, for God's sake!"

"But he's okay?" Scott probed, seizing on the positive like a drowning man clutching a seat cushion. "I mean… all things considered?"

Jeff snorted rudely.

"Yes, and I'm sure every bit of brass on the Titanic was mirror-polished, too. I'll bet they even ironed their uniforms."

"Well, looking good's half the battle," Scott quipped. "Though in that case… not the _right_ half."

His father made a sudden course adjustment, placing Thunderbird 3 on the correct trajectory to meet one small island on the fast-spinning world below.

"So, what's next?" the fighter pilot asked, changing the subject.

Jeff began his landing procedures, signaling Island Base and switching 3's flight mode to vertical. Distracted, he nevertheless managed to grunt,

"Have to trust that USAMRID and the CDC will take what we've given them to the pharamceutical companies and generate a rapid cure. I've ordered withdrawal of our medical teams to give their people room to work… _Damn!_ Must be more tired than I thought, or else the wind's picked up…"

Jeff was silent for a time, as he and Scott wrestled Thunderbird 3 back into alignment with the open and waiting roundhouse.

"Anyhow," (They'd begun to descend, now; blackness giving way to fast-thickening, reddish-tinged skies.) "…give me an hour to rest, and then I'll whistle up a company jet and head off for New York. You'll coordinate matters here, Scott, until I return with Alan and Fermat. Keep a particularly close eye on the situation with John and the other astronauts, please. There are factions out there in the civilian world who want them drawn and quartered for bringing this 'space flu' back from Mars."

"But it's not their fault!" Scott flared, breaking his landing concentration to glare at Jeff. "Those microbes weren't pathogenic until Red Path tampered with them!"

"You're preaching to the choir, son," Jeff told him, eyes forward and hands steady. "_I_ know that, and so do you. Question is… how do we prove it to an angry, frightened mob?"

The whooshing roar of Thunderbird 3 settling tail-first into her deep, sheltered berth was welcome, but it didn't hold any answers.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_San Marcos Island, in a tangle of fallen trees and uprooted vegetation-_

She'd dropped him off on the cracked tarmac, as close as reasonably possible to Thunderbird 2, but it was still a long, draining trek to the downed cargolifter. Okay… so, Penny was mad at him. Let her be. He'd done what he had to (would do it again) and the next move, clearly, was hers. In the meantime, he'd walk.

The gathering tropical night seemed raucously noisy, after New York's bare, frigid calm. A host of half-familiar scents rose up to enfold him, bringing the rumor of flowers, moist soil, shattered trees and dripping sap. Complex place, Earth. Here, the ground pulled hard and the air traveled for miles. Here, there were far too many variables to include on a decent checklist. Still… home-sweet-home, etc.

While yet a few meters away, he saw that 2's ramp was partly down and her main boarding hatch open. Practically an unlatched screen door and glowing porch light. For variety, John shifted to limping on the _other_ leg, and picked up the pace. His family was in there, with a generous handful of valued friends. Reason enough to hurry, though scrambling onto the tree-damaged ramp took strategy and effort he hadn't reckoned with.

Pride kept him from summoning assistance, despite how stupid he'd look in the morning, lying with a broken neck at the bottom of 2's damaged boarding ramp. Anyhow, everyone else was sick or busy, and John too stubborn to admit defeat or ask for help, no matter _what_ the risk. Eventually, after commandeering a few repair bots to rig a sort of ramp extension, he clambered aboard.

Once inside, fiddling with a bulkhead comm showed him where everyone else was, and that he had a clear shot at the crew cabin's shower room. More than food… more than sleep or sex, even… he very much needed to feel clean. But first (quietly) to his rarely-used locker for a towel and spare clothes.

As he padded aft, something brushed against John's thoughts like Five sometimes did. The feel was different, though. Not so much affectionate as timid. For some reason, he thought of TinTin, and received yet another swift, cat-like brush. Inexplicable, until you factored in severe, almost hallucinogenic exhaustion. Feeling like John did, _you'd_ have beautiful young girls air-kissing your cerebellum, too. Nothing food and a short nap wouldn't fix, he figured.

Before _Endurance_ and the Moon Station, he'd have called 2's shower stall spartan. Now it seemed vast and luxurious, with pressurized water that got hot and stayed that way, and didn't reek of damn iodine. Better yet, it was pretty close to entirely private. John avoided looking at the mirror as he undressed. His clothing wasn't just dirty; it was indescribable, the figure beneath not much better.

Once in the shower, he stood for a long time with his hands braced against the bulkhead and his blond head lowered, letting the water blast forth as hot as he could take it. Probably lost 20 pounds just on dirt, alone. Probably took a couple layers of skin off, too, but after his long, soaking pressure wash, John felt better; clean enough for the showroom floor.

He was shaved already and about half-dressed when Linda walked in. Like him, she had on a flight suit, but hers was worn regulation-style, zipped clear to the top. John had the pants on properly, but he'd tied the upper half around his waist by the sleeves, revealing a slightly creased tee-shirt and several bandages. For a brief, wary moment, they looked each other over.

Linda's brown hair was heavier, less fluffy, on Earth. She'd combed it down and put on lipstick, but carried a med-scanner, so maybe this was a professional visit? Before he could decide, his wife smiled at him. Coming forward, she said,

"Hey there, sunshine. How do you feel?"

_That,_ he could help her with. Smiling very slightly, John reached out, seized hold, and pulled the startled doctor as tightly against himself as possible.

"I don't know," he said, "you tell me."

Must've been the right thing to do, because Linda retaliated by groping around, kneading everything she could reach with wifely impunity.

"Still a fine piece of astronaut," she teased, gently.

"…And under contract?" he asked, continuing the joke.

"Yup. Just as firmly as ever, sunshine." Then, more seriously, "Listen... I'm not sure how much my saying this means to you, John... but I love you, and so does Junior. It's good to see you again."

"Yeah. I figured," he told the air (but somewhere inside himself, glad to hear it). One hand caressed his wife's neck and slim back, while the other protectively cradled her head against his chest. "Guess that means you'll be sticking around for awhile."

Linda pulled away just a little, tilting her head up to study his face.

"That's the plan," she said.

"Okay," John decided, kissing her. More would pass between them, soon, but for now a simple, friendly promise was enough.


	38. 38: Tangled Web

Thanks for the reviews, ED and Tikatu. Almost finished.

**38: Tangled Web**

_Later that evening, Tracy Island, the Master Suite-_

As for Jeff, he stumbled from his brief nap and ablutions still tired and grainy-eyed. There were decisions to be made, however, and a kidnapped son to collect. He'd dressed for news crews and camera lights; conservatively, in a dark, well-cut suit and polished shoes. Busy as ever, Jeff was already checking the status of his incoming corporate jet when he strode into the big sitting room of his suite and got a tremendous surprise.

Lady Penelope sat perched at the edge of his antique leather sofa, close by the table, pouring out tea from a tall, gleaming pot. Milk, sugar cubes, paper-thin slices of lemon, white-dusted pastries, jam and tiny sandwiches were set out in crystal bowls and trays of silver. Along with her delicately painted tea cups, they seemed almost too fragile for this powerfully masculine room.

Penny glanced up as he walked in, caught Jeff's gaze and held it. She was a perfect vision in pink and cream coture, her golden hair caught back with pearl clasps.

_"Do_ forgive the intrusion, Jeff darling, but at such a beastly time as this one, I can think of nothing so comforting as a proper tea. Sugar, dear?"

Jeff hesitated. There should have been headline news and a hearty meal here, with a white-jacketed Kyrano bowing his way out the door, not low tea and sympathy. Still, it wouldn't be polite to simply turn the woman out, so he took a seat beside her, and managed to smile.

"Three lumps, please," he told her, watching as Penny reached into the sugar bowl with a pair of silver tongs. Three white cubes were added, one at a time, to his steaming tea. Then she asked,

"Milk or lemon?"

"Lemon, thanks, with extra caffeine, if you've got any handy."

"Quite so."

Penny smiled at his joke, using a dainty silver fork to lift a sliver of lemon from its plate, and then float it upon the surface of his tea. The spoon, cup and saucer were then handed over to murmured thanks. Jeff inhaled appreciatively, but waited until Penelope had fixed a cup for herself before drinking any.

"Just right," he announced, relaxing a little further. And then, as she took a first sip of her own, Jeff added, "It's always good to see you, Lady Penelope, and this is as good a time as any for a quick debriefing. Your mission was a success, I take it?"

Penny made a thoughtful little mouth, setting her cup down upon its saucer with a faint _click._

"In a manner of speaking," she said. "The beginning went well, at least. But, of course, poor, dear John can hardly be blamed for what happened. I'd no _idea_ that the mere thought of pain and interrogation would prove so terrifying to him. Quite un-manned the poor love, really."

Jeff's craggy face went suddenly hard. He thumped down his barely-tasted tea, almost missing the mahogany table.

"What do you mean '_un_-_manned'_?" Jeff growled. "What did he do?"

Penelope sighed regretfully, hugging herself just a bit.

"Jeff… you must understand how fragile… how _unsuited_ John is to facing danger of any physical sort. Not a bit his fault, that he revealed your identity and plans to the Red Path interrogator. If only you'd seen how very frightened he was, you shouldn't have held him accountable."

There was an awful rush of emotions within Jeff Tracy, then; but anger, contempt and cold loathing stifled all the rest.

"Tell me exactly what happened," he grated out, "from the start of your mission to right _now."_

Once again, Penelope sighed. There was a shimmer of tears in her blue eyes which she hastily blinked away.

"Oh, dear… perhaps I should have remained silent, after all, or let John tell you… he feels perfectly dreadful over the whole wretched business, I'm sure."

Taking a lace handkechief from one of her pockets, Penny twisted it between her fingers, and sat upright again.

"Anyhow_…_ as you are aware, Jeff darling, our mission was to infiltrate the Red Path command structure. We managed this feat through my earlier pretense at… well…" she laughed a little, filled with pretty confusion and fluttering guilt.

"…My pretense at being a double agent. Yes, Jeff... I realize, now, that there was considerable risk to myself in so doing, but it _did_ seem the wisest course, once John suggested the notion. He can be terribly persuasive at times, don't you know."

Another shy laugh and bracing sip of hot tea preceded her next deep breath and reluctant revelation.

"At any rate, matters fell out, thusly: I, over the course of several dangerous months, succeeded in rising through the ranks of Red Path. Over time, I moved high enough that once John reached the Moon Station, I could pretend to 'capture' him. I was then to bring John into contact with vital computer systems by conveniently turning him in. His intention was to 'hack' the Red Path computer, I believe."

Jeff scowled. He'd never quite approved of his second son's sneaky, borderline criminal activities, no matter what their overall benefit to International Rescue.

"Go on," he said in a tense, low whisper. "What happened, next?"

Penny reached forth and gently patted his clenched fist.

"Try not to be angry with him, Jeff. He simply overestimated his own courage and abilities, poor lad. Once I'd arranged to have us brought before the Moon Station's chief operative, they threatened him with torture… and John all but collapsed. (I feel so terrible to have to relate this to you, dear) ... Then he begged them not to harm him, and began divulging all that he knew of your own mission in Thunderbird 3 as well as the identities of yourself and his brothers. Do forgive him, please. I was able to contain most of the damage, and John eventually pulled himself together enough to wreak a bit of computer havoc, but you can see _why_ I was forced to cut short my mission and return to Earth. And why, in the end, I elected to come to you with the truth."

"Why?" Jeff's words were grunted rather than spoken, as though each one clawed and tore at a bleeding throat. "Did he ask you _not_ to?"

Penny's sleek, golden head drooped, her very silence communicating _'yes'._

"Oh, Jeff…" she sighed, shuddering at some horrid, private thought. "I was so very _concerned._ On our return trip, John seemed different, almost… threatening. And he offered me money for certain small debts of mine, as well as… as a… _physical_ relationship, if I would only refrain from coming to you… but I simply _couldn't_. I shan't lie to you, Jeff. Now or ever."

Her face, as she tipped it up to his, glowed with hope, shy love and unshed tears.

…And Jeff Tracy was entirely taken in. Gently, he squeezed the small hand that she tremblingly placed in his own.

"Don't worry," he said, breaking eye contact to glare over the top of Penelope's head and out through the partly-dimmed window. "I'll take care of everything."


	39. 39: Overtime

Well... Penny's not too popular right now, obviously. Nor is she through.

**39: Overtime**

_St. Clements's Private Hospital, Hudson Valley, New York-_

Alan Tracy lay in bed, ostensibly recovering, but mostly worrying. And, okay… sulking a little, too. There were flowers and balloons in the room (Grandma, TinTin and Fermat had ordered up a bunch, as had Miss Bonaventure and Chris Springfield's dad). Very cool, and had he been here to get his tonsils out or something, he'd have loved the bright colors and drifting Mylar circles. Instead, they bothered him. Too much going on.

Sunlight streamed through the room's big window, spattering off all of those shiny surfaces. A television blared away in front of him, but Alan ignored the noise, not being interested in the latest 'it' girl or billion-dollar athlete.

What he very much wanted to know was how his father and brothers were doing; whether dad, Gordon, John, Virgil and Scott had made it through all right. He didn't have a wrist comm, though, and knew better than to ask dangerous questions in a public area. Not when just about anyone… even a dang state trooper, for pete's sake… could turn out to be crooked. _Great_.

Alan switched channels, settling for awhile on TV-40, the local WNN affiliate. Not much there, either, except that this mysterious 'space flu' thing was partly contained, and WorldGov had come up with (maybe) a cure. There was some crap about International Rescue shooting down an American bomber, but Alan didn't believe it. He knew better. People would do anything to boost their ratings, though; up to interviewing retired experts and airing computer-simulated dogfight scenarios. Alan's stomach clenched as he watched and listened. Surely, people wouldn't _believe _this junk… would they?

He was preparing to switch stations again when the bedside vid-phone rang. Scott, no picture.

_"Alan, hey. It's Scott. How's it going?"_

The bruised and bandaged teenager managed a slight shrug. Maybe he felt like stir-fried crap. Didn't mean he had to show it.

"Eh. The food's okay, but I'm still waiting for that team of hottie nurses with my sponge bath."

(The best-looking chick he'd seen so far was Leisha Bonaventure, and she was, like, ten-thousand years old.)

_"'Fraid you're going to have to reschedule your bath, Al. I'm leaving the airport right now, headed for Wharton. Once I've collected Fermat, I'll be along to pick you up, too. Expect me in about… call it an hour and a half. Be ready."_

Alan's sky-blue eyes widened.

"You?" he blurted, genuinely surprised. "But I thought dad was coming."

Scott replied with a tired grunt, saying,

_"Yeah. So did I. Change of plans, I guess. Just get your gear together, and be ready to travel."_

He sounded all set to hang up, but Alan muted the television and kept him talking.

"Scott, wait…! What about the FBI and the office dudes back at Wharton? There's a whole bunch of legal people supposed to come out and talk to me. Miss Bonaventure's coming, too. What about them?"

_"It's all taken care of, Al,"_ his oldest brother responded. _"Bonaventure's been recalled, dad's lawyers are handling the FBI, and… um… our rogue 'police friend' is being sought for special questioning. As for school, you won't miss more than a week or two, I promise. Now, shut up, get dressed and meet me at the door."_

This time, Alan couldn't prevent his brother from hanging up. The line clicked, and then commenced buzzing emptily away. Oh well… not like he was accomplishing much around here, anyway. He'd kind of wanted to finish paying off his debt to Wharton society, though. To be there when Cody woke up, and compare rescue notes with Chris. 'Cause, y'know, Springfield would be all like "whoa" when he heard… whatever Alan could safely tell him about their kidnapper. But maybe dad and his brothers needed the info, too.

Anyways, he was packed and ready to go when Scott and Fermat showed up.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, San Marcos Island-_

Gordon Tracy was terribly weak. His thoughts and words came slowly, still, and he couldn't rise from his cot, but managed to help a bit with Janeling, John's small daughter. TinTin hovered close by, as much for the comfort of Gordon's presence as to watch over the squirming babe.

"_No, _Unca Gordon!" Janie chided fiercely, from her perch at the edge of his cot. "You gotsa _sit!_ It's bery, bery hard the firs' time, but I did it on the moon, an' so could you, even on Urf. Try 'gain!"

She was really quite adorable; a dimpled and blue-eyed advert for procreation, if ever he'd seen one. Naturally, this put him to mind of Anika, who was… please, Lord… well and safe in Madrid. Here and now, though, he had got to deal with wee Janeling.

"True enough, Angel. I've been known… t' sit up once or twice before now… and t' swim a bit, as well."

"Swim?" Janie repeated, her face scrunching up with frank puzzlement. "Wha's that?"

Gordon drew himself very slightly more upright, using the cushions TinTin had provided as a brace.

"You've not been swimmin', then? Not in th' bathtub, even?"

Janie was mystified until TinTin spoke up.

"Moving through water, he means, Petite. Just as your fish did, aboard _Endurance._ This is possible for people, as well, if there is water enough. And Gordon, I am very certain, will be most pleased to show you how, once he is better."

Her gloved hand dropped to Gordon's broad shoulder, and there it remained, for the red-haired Olympian was very possibly TinTin Kyrano's truest friend. He'd have carried on talking about swimming, but stopped short when John entered the cabin with a smiling Linda, looking slightly disheveled, but pleased, the pair of them.

_"Daddy!"_ Janeling shrieked, nearly throwing herself from the bunk. "It's daddy, Timpin! _Look!"_

The returned astronaut crossed Thunderbird 2's ringing deck to join TinTin, Gordon and Janie. From TinTin he accepted a brief, tight hug. With his younger brother he shook hands, adding a quick shoulder clasp because three years was a long time not to see someone. Janie, though, he scooped up; allowing the happy little girl to hug his neck and kiss him.

_"Daddy!"_ she repeated. "Mommy, look, look! Daddy's here!"

"I noticed," her mother replied, gently patting daddy. "He's a tough man to resist."

"Daddy, you leg's okay? You arm's okay now, Daddy? Mommy could kiss it, if you aks her. Or me. I could kiss it, Daddy."

The small girl was at once anxious and overjoyed. Eager to see her father, and worried about him.

"I'm good," he said, smoothing the blonde curls on top of her head with one hand. "…Just busy. Now would be the right time for stealth mode, Junior."

Uh-huh. That meant: _Shhhhh…!_

Janie nodded solemnly, closed her eyes and buried her face in daddy's neck. Maybe there was still scary stuff, but it didn't matter because her daddy was back, and not even Urf could take away daddy.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, the cockpit-_

Virgil Tracy sat around for awhile, looking on as Brains, Kim Cho, Pete McCord and Roger Thorpe argued with a shifting backdrop of government agencies. There was a great deal of suspicion on all sides, for NASA stood accused of unleashing a deadly space plague, while International Rescue had been blamed for shooting down a fighter jet. On the other hand, Red Path had deeply infiltrated WorldGov's health and defense ministries, so the situation was something akin to a Mexican standoff. Who could you trust, and how far? Who intended to pull the trigger?

Virgil listened for awhile, then slipped off (just a little way; he was still nearby, if they needed him) to call Teena. His iPhone's screen flickered, and then cleared, revealing the beautiful, worried face of his girlfriend, Teena Redfeather.

_"Virgil!"_ she gasped, relief almost seeming to melt her. _"You okay, big guy?"_

He smiled at the girl's image, wishing he could crawl straight through that tiny screen and pull her into his arms.

"You bet, Hon. Never better. How're things at the dig site?"

Teena pushed distractedly at a strand of long, black hair.

_"Depressing,"_ she responded. _"Everyone's got space-flu jitters, so no one's going into town for supplies. We'll be down to wild goat and beans, soon."_

Virgil grimaced sympathetically.

"It's been short commons over here, too, Honey… but give me some time to get things settled, and I'll head over with beer and a banquet."

_"Sounds like a plan. I can't wait to see you, Virgil. I mean, after all this business with…"_

There was an awkward little pause, then, for Teena didn't officially know of his involvement with International Rescue. She didn't know how much to ask, and Virgil wasn't certain how much he could tell. So instead, he said,

"Understood, Hon. Hang on, and stay well, over there. I, um… I love you."

And so he did, rather to both their surprise; and there was something wonderfully freeing about admitting it. Before the wide-eyed girl could respond, however, their call was cut short.

Jeff Tracy's grim face all at once replaced Teena's, sending Virgil into ramrod straight damage control.

"Dad, I can exp…"

_"Virgil, we'll discuss the rules about personal calls during mission down-time at a later date. According to Lady Penelope, John's come aboard. I need you to hand this phone to him. __Now.__"_

Okay… that didn't sound good. It was a decidedly queasy young man who excused himself from the cockpit to head aft. What, he wondered, was going on?


	40. 40: Truth Hurts

Thanks for the reviews, Tikatu, ED, Sam1, Cathrl and Jo. Replies forthcoming.

**40: Truth Hurts**

_San Marcos Island, aboard Thunderbird 2-_

Virgil Tracy walked slowly, but thought fast. Still recovering, he remained weak and achy. There wasn't a thing wrong with his intuition, though. Something was seriously wrong; dad was on hold, John in trouble, and Virgil needed time to summon the cavalry.

Someone else might have contacted Grandma, but the first line of defense for Virgil was generally one of his brothers, so he 'accidentally' disconnected their father and called Scott. The small screen flashed up his brother's image a few seconds later. There was a bit of tan leather car seat visible over one shoulder, and part of a darkened window. Scott appeared worn and slightly rumpled, but unpacked a genuine smile, anyhow.

_"Hey, Virge. What's on your mind?"_

Virgil looked around, spotted a noisy but camera-free alcove, and withdrew from the main accessway. As repair mechs clattered and hummed away all around him, the big, brown-haired pilot said,

"Scott, I'm worried. Something's up with dad and John, and I've got a really bad feeling. Dad just got through on my phone, demanding to talk to John. He looked about as pissed-off as I've ever seen him, and that's saying something."

Scott's image sighed. Running a hand through his already mussed black hair, the fighter pilot replied,

_"Not sure what I can do about that, Virge. Dad's been upset before, John's a big boy, and I'm in New York, on my way to get Alan and Fermat. __Then,__ I'm supposed to swing by the Manhattan office and…"_

"Scott, you're not listening," Virgil cut him off, urgently. "I'm not sure how to explain it, but I _know_ this is serious. They listen to you, both of them… except that you can't help if you're not here. Now, 2 doesn't leave the ground without my say-so, and everyone here but TinTin and Brains is pretty contagious, so I have a temporary excuse to keep John and dad apart. I'm going to need your help, though. Please… drop whatever bullshit errand he's got you on, and get over here. ASA-right-the-hell-P."

Slowly, Scott Tracy nodded assent. Virgil was rarely this forceful, and he always had a good reason for being so.

_"Okay, Virge. You win. Once I've collected the boys, I'll ditch the corporate jet and pick up a 'special'. Expect me in three hours."_

Sheer relief unknotted half the muscles in Virgil Tracy's neck and back.

"FAB. See you then, Scott."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_The rear crew cabin-_

John Tracy was listening to his brother Gordon, and still holding a very squirmy and affectionate Junior, when he spotted Virgil peering around the forward hatch frame. His next-youngest brother made eye-contact, signaling with one hand in a way that he reasoned meant: _come this way, alone and quietly._

So John excused himself, handing Janie off to his wife. After a moment, reminding himself that females expected that sort of thing, he kissed them both. Junior, on top of her curly blonde head, Dr. Bennett lingeringly. Maybe later, they'd have a chance to repeat what they'd rushed through earlier in the shower room… only with more time and a softer surface. Not that he hadn't enjoyed it. Sex, like pizza, was nearly always good, but context mattered. _Especially_ to females. Anyhow, he left her with a wordless promise of more (and better) to come, then turned and followed Virgil out the long oval hatch.

Just out of earshot from the group in the cabin, the ex-football player stopped walking and turned to face his newly returned older brother.

"John," he asked, searchingly, "everything okay?"

_Um_… which 'everything' would that be, John wondered. His health? The weather? Global politics? All of the above, maybe?

"I'm not dying, typhoon season is pretty much over, and no one's recently declared war, which about covers the situation on this end. You?"

Virgil sort of laughed, reaching out to give John a slightly rough (but mostly affectionate) shake. When he'd finished roughhousing, he fished out a phone and handed it over, saying,

"Weak as hell, believe it or not. The bug I caught from Gordon came near to finishing _both_ of us off, but that's beside the point, John. Dad called about fifteen-point-one-five minutes ago. He wants to talk to you, and he sounds mad. Anything going on you need help with?"

John became, all at once, indecipherably still. When all he did was shake his head, _'no',_ Virgil pressed on.

"I've got a weird feeling, is all… I mean, if this was a game, and we were both out on the field, I'd tell you to rush the snap-count, John, because I'm reading blitz. So… want me to stick around while you call him back? I could…"

"No. I'm good."

"But, listen. I can stay…"

John had been looking slightly aside while his brother talked. Now his gaze snapped directly onto Virgil's, and his dark-blue eyes were hard and remote.

"No."

He needed time and quiet to think, actually, while Virgil required unacceptable levels of attention. Always had.

"I'll take the call outside. Thanks for the heads-up."

End of topic, because John was through discussing the matter. And, though Virgil Tracy backed worriedly off, another did not. Having 'overheard' their exchange, TinTin Kyrano took another dangerous, painful risk. If John required assistance, then she would nudge into his path one strong and respected enough to provide help. One whose advice would not be rebuffed.

Suddenly, for no reason he could fathom, Commander Pete McCord laid eyes upon a pack of Virgil's cigarettes and was struck with the powerful urge to smoke outdoors. Just as John left Thunderbird 2 to step onto the boarding ramp, McCord took up the pack, mumbled something about checking the perimeter, and left the cockpit.

Once outside, John stepped to the very edge of the boarding ramp. He'd been right about the weather. It was a clear night; warm, breezy and exploding with southern stars. They didn't twinkle much, so it was a night of good seeing, on top of everything else. Nice.

Besides the jungle and distant ocean, Thunderbird 2's busy repair bots provided most of the noise; welding, hammering and lasering away at her crash damage. Anyhow, because there was nothing else to do, John squared his shoulders, raised the phone and punched in his father's office code. What the hell, huh?

Jeff Tracy picked up almost immediately. Didn't say anything, though. Not right away.

There were emotions inside of John, but they seemed very small and far away, like figures glimpsed through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. Probably just get in the way, anyhow. Clearing his throat a little, he said,

"You wanted to speak to me?"

Jeff nodded once, tightly.

_"Yes, I did. Before I get to the point of this conversation, however, is there anything you'd like to report about your mission with Parker and Lady Penelope?"_

Right away, John became confused. Wide-open questions were always a bitch to respond to, and his father's face was rocky and taut with… impatience, maybe.

_"Well…?"_

"No, sir. Not yet. But, um… by the time we debrief, I'll have…"

_"You'll have what? Figured out a way to cover your tracks? Worked out a plausible lie?"_

Jeff leaned closer to the screen, his brow deeply furrowed. Just then, he looked like the angriest of those 'what are they feeling?' pictures. The one at the far right.

_"…Because I've already debriefed Penelope, who informed me that you broke like a twig when faced with interrogation! Further, she told me that you betrayed the organization… my mission… your own __brothers__… to Red Path, rather than risk getting hurt!"_

He paused for breath, expecting some kind of response, but John was far too beset and confused to think. And, once again, Jeff misinterpreted his son's icy silence. He went on, angrier than ever,

_"As if that weren't bad enough, Penny tells me that you actually tried pushing yourself on her, physically. Damn it, John! What kind of filthy animal tries to force a lady… a family friend… to have sex with him, and then bribes her to shut up about it, afterward? What in the hell is __wrong__ with you?"_

John was past reasoning, though. By this stage of the 'conversation' he could barely hear his father, and certainly couldn't answer him. Inside, he was tightly withdrawn and knotted up. Outside, he merely looked bored and indifferent. To…

_"Answer me, damn it!"_

…the best he could manage was a slight shrug. Jeff's seething brown eyes narrowed, then, and he shook his head.

_"That's what I thought. Keep quiet, then, John… but understand this. If these accusations turn out to be true, if you really are the worthless, cowardly snake that circumstance and testimony point to… then I want nothing more to do with you, __ever.__ Not in the company, not in IR, and not in my family. Tracy, __out.__"_

There was nothing for awhile after that but internal static. He was filled with a sort of mental buzzing noise and the perfect, sharp whiteness of things within trying to order themselves. Cleared up, eventually, but by that time his hand was cut up and the phone had disappeared. John was sorry about that, because it hadn't been his. Have to, maybe, buy Virgil another one. If… well, depending on what happened.

Pete walked out through the boarding hatch, about then. Grunting,

"'Evening, Tracy. Good to see you back in once piece,"

…he tapped one cigarette from a pack of Marlboros and set about lighting it, birthing his own crumbling-red, ash-dropping star. It glowed and faded with his breath and the fitful wind, issuing a constant, light stream of smoke.

McCord puffed away for awhile, coughing down through the first cigarette he'd had in many long years. He looked though, too, and his unflinching eye detected an upset and troubled John.

_Never a dull moment,_ Pete decided. Aloud, he asked,

"What's going on?"

John would have preferred to stay quiet, but there was no ignoring the mission commander, not even when the mission in question had pretty well ended.

"Nothing much. Just some crap with my father."

Getting the hang of a long-banished habit, Pete exhaled a cloud of smoke and cocked a sandy eyebrow.

"Jeff?" he prodded. "What's got his panties in a bunch? Besides being a retired damn desk jockey, I mean? Seemed all right on the flight over here…"

John hesitated. Then, very slowly, eyes avoiding the quietly smoking silhouette beside him, he recounted all that Penny and his father had accused him of.

"You're goddam kidding me! Don't tell me he actually _believes_ that shit?" McCord snapped, flicking his smoked-down stub off the side of the ramp.

John shrugged. There was something inside him almost too hollow and bitter to allow a reply, but after a second he said,

"I think so, yeah."

"Then he doesn't know you very well. _Damn!_ In the spirit of brotherly love, I'd drag his ass over here for a little heart-to-heart, but I'd end up getting arrested for murder."

Muttering aloud, McCord lit up another cigarette and started furiously smoking, again. He didn't get very far, because John suddenly reached over, plucked the glowing stick from his grasp, and then flung it down to be ground underfoot.

"You need to stop that, Pete. Those things'll kill you."

(In some weird way, John was convinced, they already _had._)

"You're my mother, now?" McCord grumbled, putting the cigarette pack away in one of his flight suit pockets.

John stared at the boarding ramp, letting a curtain of silver-blond hair screen his frozen face. Just… it was too much effort to care that he'd somehow done the wrong thing, again. Too hard to feel anything at all but numb and alone. Then, Pete gave his left arm a brisk pat, saying,

"Well… they aren't as good as I remember, anyway. Thanks for putting me back on the straight and narrow, Tracy. The ladies, especially, will appreciate it."  
A moment later, John nodded. There was a time long past when he'd been small enough to sit in the crook of Uncle Pete's arm, wrinkling his nose at the smell of beer and smoke, watching that glowing red cigarette tip point out a speeding orbiter. Some of that warmth crept through, now, like smiling at an old photograph.

Said the mission commander,

"Okay… so, what we have here is a failure to communicate. What we need to do is present the truth, because I'm assuming you'd like to work things out with dear old dad. That being the case; hit me. What really happened after you headed off with Blades-n-Arsenic Barbie?"

Again, John shrugged his thin shoulders, finding deep pockets for his tightly fisted hands.

"I'm not sure, Pete. I was sort of… she had to drug me for a lot of the mission, to convince the Red Path operatives on the Moon that I was a harmless captive. I don't recall being interrogated… or assaulting and bribing Penny, either. But maybe I wasn't, um… wasn't myself."

McCord studied the younger man for awhile. Then he shook his balding head, saying,

"Nope. I don't buy it. Drugs unleash people. They bring out what's already there. Hell, Tracy… I've seen you drunk, remember? You don't turn mean. You get… I dunno… _normal._ More like everybody else. And I don't accept that danger would cause you to act like a traitor or a coward. I've been on the shit-end of too many rough situations with you, to fall for that one. This 'Penny' is a damn liar, and your father's a fool, if he believes her horse-crap story."

John's head lifted a bit. He looked almost _at_ the mission commander, who'd begun pacing the ramp and slapping at insect bites.

"Question is," Pete muttered, "how do we find out and prove what really happened?"

It was then that a slim, dark-eyed shadow detached itself from the whispering dark, and shrank away. TinTin Kyrano scurried back within Thunderbird 2, her heart pounding madly.

One of her friends… the kind and calm John, or the so-generous and elegant Lady Penelope… was lying. The other was a victim of betrayal, sorrow and abandonment. But, which one?

Anguished, her own mind still torn by what she'd had to do to Vicente Vargas, TinTin stumbled blindly along the metal corridor. What must she do? How could she help one friend without damning the other?


	41. 41: Conference

**41: Conference**

_San Marcos Island, aboard Thunderbird 2-_

TinTin found a place to secret herself, very far down in the vehicle pod. For some reason, perhaps because Virgil had last been to Spain after Gordon, Thunderbird 4 was there.

Gleaming yellow in the puddled glow of many floodlights, the Waterbird was nearly as warm and protective as her pilot, and TinTin's palm scan was already in the files. All that she had to do was race across the pod gantry and up to the hatch. 4 let her in without hesitation, once her ungloved right hand was pressed to the contact plate and scanned. Removing that glove started a virtual rebellion, however. Filled with sudden distaste, TinTin squirmed free of her biohazard suit and kicked the thing aside. Whatever happened, she would face matters as Gordon and Virgil did; without flinching. (But with… Dieu merci… fresh air!)

Seeking rest and escape, TinTin darted through the boarding hatch and then shut and locked it behind her. Lights and air conditioning blinked purring to life, the instant her body heat was detected within. At the same time, the forward view screen cleared, presenting as much of a view as the shadowy hold allowed.

"'Allo, Cherie," TinTin whispered, settling herself into a knees-hugged-to-chest crouch on the pilot's seat. "I thank you many times for the shelter."

There was a brightly-colored rosary hanging from the overhead. TinTin smiled to see it, brushing the crucifix with a gentle thought. Her head hurt, so the mental feel of smooth plastic… with beyond that, cold, rigid steel and Plexiglas… was very soothing. Here, the others' thoughts could not reach her. All that TinTin's mind detected was a subtle background murmur, like traffic, or the rumble of restless surf. Closer to, the shipboard computers whirred and clicked away, but they did not live. No hurt or fear or bewilderment troubled their calculations.

But, her own problem remained. _Problems,_ rather, for she was become a murderess, as well as a future betrayer of friends.

_Bon_. Ought she to make confession, TinTin wondered? Once again, she wrapped her thoughts about the smooth, oval beads of the rosary, and set it to swinging.

She did not wish to speak to an outsider of International Rescue, but Father Arnold was a friend, and Gordon's confessor, besides. He didn't seem the sort to betray his duty as parish priest. And… perhaps in the confessional, she might rid herself of the lingering stain of Vicente Vargas, whose mind and dark nature twisted everything she thought. What might Father Arnold give her as penance for her crime, though?

"No matter," TinTin decided aloud. To the plastic rosary and Thunderbird 4, she added, "Though it means 10,000 prayers and tucking into bed each and every child in Tahiti, I shall do as Father Arnold bids me. Only let me be freed of this burden!"

Having reached a decision, the girl felt better. More peaceful. As to her other trouble, that of choosing between John Tracy and Lady Penelope, TinTin had not the first notion how to proceed. Creep close, perhaps, and examine their secret thoughts?

_Non_. This, she could not do. Even had she known how to safely open their minds and unlock hidden truth, TinTin lacked the necessary confidence. Trying to do good, she might instead cause as much harm to John and Penelope as she had to the horrid Vargas.

"Forgive me," she told the flickering instrument panel and curving view screen, "but I cannot."

Tighter still, the girl's thin arms wrapped themselves about her up-drawn legs.

"I _dare_ not."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Outside of Thunderbird 2, on the boarding ramp-_

Pete McCord had gone back inside. To think, he said, but also to check in with Houston. Gene and the Mission Support team were demanding ever more frequent updates, and after the month they'd had, who could blame them?

Certainly not John, who finally had the time he needed to come up with a plan. Not the space, though. John was bothered enough by the great curving fuselage behind him (green in memory, grey-dark in the humid, buzzing gloom of a tropical night), that he climbed to the jungle floor and walked away.

What was it that Penny had said to him aboard that ore carrier? That she'd pulled the plug on their mission because she didn't want him facing interrogation? They'd have killed him, she'd said… and not quickly, either.

John paused in his slow walk to retrieve the right file. He'd gotten upset with her, the astronaut recalled, because all that had mattered then was getting vbs.Whiplash within range of a Red Path mainframe.

Locating a fairly horizontal tree trunk, John sat down.

_What the hell, what the hell…_

Why would she say one thing to him, and another to dad? To get even for Stirling? But, why? The cyborg had…

A. tried to kill him, and…

B. been dying pretty horribly, anyhow.

But that was Penelope for you; mutable, dangerous and lovely as fire.

John straightened a little. Could she be angry still, about his decision not to break contract with Linda? _Possibly_. Females got fixated that way, sometimes.

The moon began to rise, and a slight skittering noise to his right distracted him, briefly. Looking around, John noticed a spider-like repair mech picking its way along the tree trunk from the general direction of Thunderbird 2.

"Hey," he greeted the small robot. "Felt like taking a walk?"

It drew closer; a black-and-silver, faintly clattering thing. His ID chip warmed gently at the same time. Not a warning, then, but a greeting. Five's version of _'hey, yourself'._

John put a hand on the mech, several of whose tools and appendages reached up and out to clasp his right shoulder. Okay… contact established, and so back to the major malfunction.

His father was angry, because he believed what Penelope had told him. And he accepted her story because…

_Whatever._ Something inside him shrank coldly tighter, then. No percentage in exploring that strand, John decided. Only in solving it. The question was, _how_?

Thinking deeply, John plucked a bug-mined leaf, studying with half his attention its fretwork of branching veins. Only one thing he could do, really. (Besides take his family and go.)

He needed to explain his end of things, without exposing any more of Penelope's past than absolutely necessary. _Tough_ _one_. Promise or no promise, though, he had a right to tell the truth, if it meant undeceiving his father, and preventing another family argument. They'd all want to help; Pete, Virgil and probably Scott, too. Once again, friends and brothers would rush in to save the day, unless John dealt with the matter, himself.

Five had placed a slight force field around him, using moonlight and zero-point energy from the random motion of air molecules to create bug-zapping electricity. Every few seconds that he sat upon that fallen trunk, something hapless and bloodthirsty met a quick, blazing demise. Convenient, but John had a better use for all that power.

"Five," the astronaut ordered, "I need a comm screen. Form one in situ, and uplink to the Tracy prototype filespace."

His chip pulsed and a faint something brushed at the inside of John's head. Projected by the robot, a glowing, semi-transparent square appeared in the air before him. Too late, John realized that he hadn't yet decided what he was going to say. He'd have ordered a pause, but Jeff Tracy's image popped up in midair, with stars and tangled foliage peeping through. _Show_ _time_.

Jeff started to say something and John cut him off, not to seize control, but because there was no other way he could do this.

"Wait. Give me five minutes to answer the charges, please. Just listen. After that, if you're not convinced that I'm telling the truth, you're more than welcome to take the next step."

Jeff's lips tightened and his arms folded, but he nodded, meaning: _go ahead._

"Okay. This is everything I remember: Once Penelope joined me on the Moon, the rest of the crew went out to the old station. Penny and I proceeded according to plan, following corridor 24-B toward the freight hangar and launch pad. We talked, on the way. She, um…"

(This part was hard.)

"In the past, we had a thing: a relationship. I guess I thought it was more important than she did, at first. She got serious later, but in the beginning, I was just available. Whatever; I got over it, and I thought she would, too."

_Damn,_ his father's face was doing some peculiar things. Before the older man could erupt, John hurried with the rest of his story.

"Yeah, so… I stopped at a restroom, to code and upload a few things I'd need later. At that point, Penny told me that I had to be drugged, so that the Red Path guards wouldn't see through her cover identity. I was supposed to be a helpless captive, but I'm bigger than she is, and I was wearing a hard suit. No one would have believed that she'd overpowered me unless I was incapacitated, somehow, so drugs it was."

John's words ran short, then, as he groped past a fog of drifting, partial memories. He hadn't come to the end of his five minutes, though, so Jeff Tracy didn't move or speak, except to pour himself a cup of coffee.

"Everything kind of randomizes, after that, but if I tried anything physical, it might have happened then, probably because I forgot that we'd ended our affair. I'm sorry, if that's what happened. I don't remember doing anything wrong, but I guess it could have happened."

Jeff took a long pull from his coffee cup. In the meantime, two more insects flared out of existence against Five's shield, and John shook away the last dregs of an outdated emotion.

"What I _do_ remember is waking up still in my NASA hardsuit, strapped to a couch in the passenger compartment of an ore freighter. That _wasn't_ part of the plan. We were supposed to wind up at a Red Path nerve center, only Penelope changed her mind. We had an argument about it. She told me that I wouldn't have survived interrogation, which I thought was a bullshit reason to back down. Then, um… at that point…"

John would have skipped the next bit (Penny's attempt to seduce him) but he'd reckoned without Five. All at once, the screen before him split in half. One side retained his father's ghostly image. The other began replaying a video record of events aboard the carrier _Goliath._

In miniature and perfect silence, Lady Penelope entered the spaceship's cockpit and touched the pilot's shoulder. To John's surprise, the man went rigid and then lurched against his seat straps. Dead? Penny hadn't said anything to him about having to fend off a last minute attack, but he'd never seen the ship's pilot, either.

The scene fast-forwarded while John and his father looked on. Now they were seeing Penelope approach him in the ship's head, her lips moving soundlessly as she reached upward to massage the back of his neck. Worse, the camera had recorded his own reflexive response, the way he'd embraced and begun to kiss her. It froze after he pushed her away and turned to answer his wrist comm.

Father and son stared at that frozen, incriminating image. They were separated by miles of restless ocean and years of miscommunication, and everything now hinged on Jeff Tracy's first words. Clearing his throat, Jeff checked his watch and then said,

_"I see. That call would have been Alan's alarm, followed by our conference while I was flying Thunderbird 3. After that, you were dispatched with Parker and Lady Penelope to find and rescue your brother. Correct?"_

"Yes, sir."

Jeff sighed. Leaning back in that big leather chair of his, he said,

_"John… it seems that I owe you an apology. This wouldn't be the first time that a jilted woman has chosen to take revenge by twisting the truth… but that doesn't excuse the fact that I believed her."_

All at once, something beeped just out of camera range, drawing a quick sideways glance from Jeff Tracy. His heavy dark brows lifted.

_"Well…bar none, that's got to be the single most insulting message I've ever received. Pete McCord has a definite way with words."_

Shaking his head, Jeff tapped out a swift reply (though hopefully not in kind). Once the return message was sent, he resumed speaking to his very still son.

_"Again, I'm sorry. I can't ask you to forgive me, John, but I can request that we set aside my earlier outburst and focus on the future. If nothing else, can I hope to resume a professional relationship?"_

John found himself answering in a calm, firm voice.

"Yes, sir… once I've wrapped up the mission with NASA, I'll return to my post."

And then, because she'd once very much mattered, John said,

"Penelope is a freelance operative. She's worked for WorldGov and MI-6, as well as for us. Sometimes, I guess, her reactions tend to be more 'license to kill' than 'rescue'."

_"I understand that, son, but I don't condone it. She and I will need to have a very long talk before I decide in what capacity, if any, she's going to remain with this organization. As we've discussed before, I don't appreciate being lied to."_

A plane roared overhead, then, noisy and fast in the star-pocked gloom. John heard it first, followed a few moments later by Jeff. The elder Tracy frowned at his monitor screen, apparently puzzled by what he saw there.

_"Your brother is back with Alan and Fermat, already?"_ he wondered aloud. Then, already busy, _"Son, if we can continue this conversation another time…?"_

John nodded. Like himself, his father had work to do, and anyhow, it was a nice night for a long walk.


	42. 42: Any Given Sunday

The Five-altered timeline continues to make itself felt. Edits are here.

**42: Any Given Sunday**

_Tracy Island, a warm evening in early December-_

Down at the airstrip, Scott was arriving with Fermat and Alan. Up in his office, Jeff Tracy ended a call and sat staring out his window at moving, lamp-lit darkness. He owned two tropical islands, a powerful multi-national corporation and five increasingly independent sons. Had more than his share of troubles, too; starting with Lady Penelope and… _John._

Now, _there_ was a hell of a thing. A revelation he hadn't been ready for. Not that he'd ever played football, but Jeff nevertheless imagined that being blind-sided by a hurtling linebacker would feel about as good as learning of this… affair. Two things sprang to mind, through all the confused emotions and full-body-shiver visuals:

1) When in doubt, schedule a conference,

And…

2) Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.

So, he keyed up the comm, again, this time calling Hiram Hackenbacker. Two or three seconds passed, and then the engineer frowned out of the desktop computer screen, face a little blurred by the plastic visor of his blue bio-hazard suit.

_"Y- Yes, Mr. Tracy? Can I, ah… can I help you?"_

"You certainly can, Brains. I'm going to need…"

Jeff paused in mid-sentence when WNN's scrolling news feed and on-the-hour alert chime drew his attention. It seemed that Senator Stennis was dead, apparently assassinated. More than that, his closest aide had been found huddled in the back of a limousine, blank-eyed and feverish. A victim of the space flu? Or something else?

_"M- Mr. Tracy?"_ Brains prompted. His glasses were slightly askew beneath the hazard suit's headpiece._ "Sir…?"_

Jeff tore his brown eyes away from the news crawl, and refocused.

"Yes, of course. Sorry, Brains. I need an update on the space flu situation, from your end. Basically, what have you and TinTin turned up, and how are the boys?" (Meaning Virgil and Gordon. For partly superstitious reasons, he didn't want to ask about his grandchild and daughter-in-law, while John, Pete and the other astronauts had never been sick in the first place.)

Brains' reply was swift and clinical, and mostly read off a data-board.

_"As I'd, ah… I'd expected, Sir, there are two strains of infectious exobacter. Strain A is the, ah… the original and it s- seems not t- to be pathogenic, beyond some initial fluish-ness. It __does__ appear to g- grant immunity from Strain B, which is th- the weaponized mutant. John, the other astronauts and, ah… and anyone who's c- come into contact with, ah… with them has Strain A. Yourself included, Sir, probably via Lady Penelope. Alan and now, ah… now Scott and Fermat have been infected through John, which m- may prove difficult to ex- explain, as th- there's no official way they c- could have encountered each other, yet."_

Jeff grunted and then began rearranging the icons on his desktop.

"International Rescue and family security would be deeply compromised, if anyone proves clever enough to work out the transmission route," he said, placing an MSN icon over WNN's "News Now!" logo.

"We'll have to come up with something… maybe a resupply flight to San Marcos with myself aboard… that explains a general family infection. I'm a former astronaut, after all. People would accept that I'd fly food and medicines out to my own son." Then, with a sigh, "At least Strain A is helpful."

Brains nodded reluctantly.

_"F- For now," _he admitted. _"But th- there's no way to, ah… to tell wh- what may happen as it grows accustomed to a human host."_

"Noted."

There were only so many ways you could reconfigure 10 icons, and Jeff had by now explored most of them.

"What about the others? You and TinTin have taken precautions, I'm sure, but how are Virgil and Gordon?"

Hackenbacker's lips thinned.

_"Improving, in V- Virgil's case. Gordon very nearly, ah… nearly died, and he's quite weak, yet."_

Softly, not looking up, Jeff asked,

"He'll live?"

_"I w- would say that, yes… barring relapse, th- the worst is, ah… is over, Sir."_

Jeff Tracy stood up and walked across the office. The room's auto-cams tracked and transmitted a continuous, real-time image, though not always full face.

"Keep an eye on him, Brains, and find out whatever you can about his friends and teammates in Spain. All information is to be run through me, before reaching Gordon. Understood?"

_"Yes, Mr. Tracy."_

"For his own good, I intend to keep the boy from learning anything too soon that might upset him, or set back his recovery."

Brains' image nodded once again.

_"I'll d- do my best, Sir. In the, ah… the meantime, the CDC and W- World Health Organization have decided to, ah… to have the cure virus m- mass produced as a nasal spray. Springfield and Pfizer will s- swing into p- production momentarily, Glaxo-Welcome, j- just as soon as the b- board meets for approval."_

Startled, Jeff came back to the comm screen.

"They've tested Cho's virus in a human subject, already?" he demanded, wondering at WorldGov's speed. He hadn't thought that his engineer could look any grimmer, but the man's features found a way to tighten further.

_"Actually, NASA h- has agreed to, ah… to provide test subjects, while the virus is being produced, sir. Roger Thorpe and John have v- volunteered for the, ah… the job. Pete McCord w- was deemed too, ah… too old, and, despite their p- protests, no one w- wanted to risk the, ah… the ladies, so Kim Cho and John's wife are out, as well."_

Interesting. John hadn't said anything about guinea-pig duty during their phone conversation, but secrecy and subterfuge were very much his style. Much like private, off-the-cuff heroics.

"That may help to rehabilitate NASA's image, and prove the cure's effectiveness against Strain A, but what about the deadly version?"

Brains smiled a little sadly.

_"Th- There is no shortage of volunteers in, ah… in France and S- Spain eager to t- test a possible antidote, Mr. Tracy."_

"No… I guess there wouldn't be." Jeff gave himself a little shake, adding, "Thanks for the update, Brains, and keep up the good work. Oh… one more thing, before you go… those energy spikes we were talking about the other night; are they conclusively tied to John?"

Hackenbacker hesitated before nodding.

_"Y- Yes, sir. Going over household and shipboard r- records, it can be sh- shown that, ah… that electronic and m- mechanical equipment tends to draw more power whenever John is present."_

Jeff scowled. More accurately, his entire face seemed to compress.

"That quantum computer of his… the one I told him to hold off building… could he have found a way to complete it?"

Hackenbacker's shoulders lifted, and then dropped. In this partly-altered reality, he'd lost a bit of his intellectual edge.

_"I c- can't really say, Mr. Tracy. Th- The diagrams __I__ saw wouldn't produce anything functional without access to, ah… to a few extra d- dimensions, but he might have c- come up with another plan."_

"Understood, Brains. Thanks again for the update. Tracy, out."

An impatient wave of his hand severed the comm link, giving him time to think. Jeff wanted to have faith in his son; to trust that his plans and communications _weren't_ being monitored by the boy… but it wasn't easy maintaining confidence in the face of news like this.

Deeply worried, Jeff rang for coffee. That video he'd seen of Penelope throwing herself at John; if recorded and stored in a powerful computer, might it not also be altered, there? Or made up, entirely?

What the hell was he supposed to believe?

Needing more information, he contacted Penny, who was just emerging from her bath and gave every indication of delight at his call.

_"Jeff, darling! How perfectly lovely to speak with you!"_

She didn't look guilty or troubled in the slightest. Just moist and fresh-scrubbed, her blonde hair tucked out of sight in a big towel, her slim figure wrapped in a fluffy, warm bathrobe.

_"How may I be of assistance?"_

Jeff smiled automatically, pushing from his thoughts the deeply repugnant image of her with John.

"Good evening, Lady Penelope. I'm sorry to bother you so late at night, but I've spoken with my son. He presented a very different version of your mission together, as well as your… overall relationship."

She grew very still, then, and her china-blue eyes widened like a child's.

_"Do go on, Jeff,"_ the noblewoman whispered. _"I shall be most intrigued to learn what the dear boy has to say about me."_

Fair enough and deserving of a straight answer.

"He told me that the two of you had been involved in a long-term affair that ended with his marriage to Doctor Bennett. He also says that he was drugged for most of the lunar portion of the mission, and remembers almost nothing that happened up there."

Penelope's small chin lifted defiantly.

_"But naturally, he would attempt to excuse himself, and you would yearn to believe him."_

"Naturally. Except that there was video evidence, as well; some form of surveillance camera data from a transport ship. It corroborates his story on a number of key points."

Penny tilted her head to one side, the very picture of kittenish confusion.

_"Surely, Jeff, you recall that your son is a computer expert, and a master at the erasure and altering of images? Has he not displayed these dubious skills, time and again, in the service of International Rescue?"_

Doubt sank its fangs a little deeper, but Jeff refused to let himself overreact. Not this time.

"Let's just say that the matter is open to question, Lady Penelope. In the past, you've proven yourself to be a reliable and effective part of International Rescue. I'll make no comment about any previous… goings on… between you and my son, except to say that it needs to end, and that soured affairs have been known to cause trouble, before. Work and love don't mix; not in the office, not on a mission, and not in a rescue craft. Period."

She looked close to tears, and Jeff hated himself for having distressed her.

_"I'm shattered to think that you'd believe me capable of such common behavior, Jeff. I would do nothing, __ever__, to sully the ancient name of my family and estate." _

"Be that as it may, the situation is too unclear for me to place conclusive blame. I would welcome your continued participation in this organization, so long as everything remains on a business-like level, and you check with myself or Scott before using deadly force. That said, can we come to an agreement, Penny?"

At the other end of the link, seated at her vanity in a loosely tied bathrobe, the young woman sighed. Jeff Tracy couldn't have guessed at the pain and embarrassment twisting within her. Well, thank God for that!

Very simply, John hadn't at first been more than a pleasant physical indulgence; like chocolate creams and binge shopping. Then, mission by clandestine encounter, he'd increased in importance, becoming nearly central. She hadn't admitted this to him, however. Not until far too late for real trust or companionship. And now, he'd a wife and child, and their affair was both ended and revealed.

Was she to accept this? To continue working with IR, close beside John and his accidental family? Or betake herself elsewhere? Clearly, despite her machinations there would be no exiled and shamed lover for her to comfort… no motherless child to adopt. And, also, no place else to go. Having violated the terms of her contract with Red Path, she might expect nothing more from Mr. Black but an assassin's blade and a shallow grave, whilst all that Jeff Tracy required was good behavior and continued service. Easily enough rendered… for now.

"I can admit to no wrong-doing. Unlike your dear, spineless son, I have never been arrested, nor had a charge of criminal-hacking revoked due to parental intercession. And while it grieves me deeply that you would even consider his self-serving story and altered video… I understand that as a father, you can do little else. So, pray consider me still an agent in good standing, Jeff, as well as your true and loyal friend."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Earlier, out on the tarmac-_

Fermat and Alan had tumbled, yawning and scratching, down the boarding stairs of Scott Tracy's "special" plane. They'd arrived at the velvet-moist, night-buzzing island after a hurried pick-up and two hours of ultrasonic flight. By this time, the boys' internal clocks weren't just off, they were flat broken.

Naturally, they'd talked the whole way, rushing over each other's words with bits of their own story, one boy's marauding cyborg being matched by the other's ferociously armed G-men. Awed bursts of…

"No way!"

And…

"Oh, m- man! You're… kidding!"

…wreathed and punctuated each description, until they left the plane. At that point, they were met with stars, sea-noise and a black-and-white, yapping tornado, and talk turned to other things.

Alan couldn't help laughing as Gordon's funny little dog came bounding up to them.

"Hey, Scout! Hey, fella!" he called, slapping his chest with both hands to encourage the terrier's ecstatic leaps. "You're a lot smaller than Boye, aren't you? Bet you'd like him, though!"

Fermat grinned, hands in his pockets and glasses halfway down the bridge of his nose.

"Yeah… r- right, he would until he got… _eaten,_ like a m- marshmallow bunny!"

Alan grinned back, gathering the little dog up and getting a serious, face-licking, '_I missed you_'.

"Not Scout. He's too… _ick_… fast. Right, buddy? Plus, how many wolfhounds do you know that can chill out on a wave-rider with Gordon? That'd be, like, _zero,_ dude."

He'd be glad to see Boye again, though, having decided that Wharton was a challenge, and that challenges were meant to be pounded flat. Overcome, and junk. Besides, he had friends there.

Fermat tugged at Alan's sleeve, pointing out the bobbing amber headlights which zigzagged down the mountain toward them. Kyrano, most likely, on his way to the airstrip in that plus-sized golf cart of his.

"L- Looks like our… ride's here," the dark haired boy announced. His words were kind of hard to make out, though, because he'd stretched to tip-toe and yawned like the Grand Canyon at the same time.

"Yeah," Alan agreed, too amiably exhausted to worry about a stupid little thing like manners.

It was just about then that Scott shambled out of the plane, looking beat.

"Hey, guys," he said, without preamble. "I've got a couple things to do, dad's in conference, and everyone else but Grandma and Kyrano is out on San Marcos. Try not to get underfoot and, um…"

(Like, real ha-ha funny stuff, here.)

"…don't get yourselves kidnapped."

John had a particular gesture for situations like this, but Alan wasn't allowed to use it, so instead he just rolled his blue eyes and handed over the frantically squirming terrier. So much for steadfast canine loyalty.

"No problemo, Scooter," Alan replied, as dim headlights and crunching gravel announced Kyrano. "We'll leave all those scary seagulls and, y'know, whacked-out robo-palm trees to you."

Scott didn't get mad, but hey… the night was young, right? Anything could happen on Tracy Island.

14


	43. 43: A Few, Brief Hours

**43: A Few, Brief Hours**

_Tracy Island, nighttime-_

As boys will do, Alan and Fermat soon found their way to the kitchen. Scott was an awesome pilot, but his in-flight meals consisted mostly of chewing gum and free advice, so his passengers arrived at the mansion nearly transparent with hunger. A full-scale raid was mounted at once; the big, brushed-aluminum door propped open whilst Fermat and Alan made repeated trips from refrigerator to table. A few things spilled or were eaten on the way, but quite a bit made it to their _Operation: Sandwich_ staging area.

Grandma called over the comm about, like, fifteen million times. She couldn't come downstairs, though, because Alan and Fermat had been exposed to Strain A, and nobody knew how old folks would handle alien microbes. Hating every second of enforced laziness, she and Kyrano were both confined to quarters. Too bad for them; but on the bright side, the boys were now free to make and eat whatever concoction an adolescent male stomach could take.

For starters (while gulping a handful of green olives) Alan piled leftover spaghetti between two slices of toast, sat down and tucked right in.

"Whoa," he said, after several grateful bites, "this is gourmet, five-star stuff, Dude. I've invented a recipe that's going to, like, change the world."

Fermat had thrown together his own tower of mustard, tuna fish and pimento cheese on seeded rye.

"N- Not if I… get there, f- first," he replied, around a giant mouthful of food. "I defy any… d- disease organism to survive exposure to th- _this_!"

Alan washed down his first experiment with a hefty swig of cherry soda, then set about constructing another. This time, he added canned meat and mayonnaise to the basic spaghetti-sandwich plan.

"Yeah. We could open up a combo surf/sandwich and computer repair shop out in Cali; you, me, Gordon, Chris and Cody. We could call it: _Big Al's Spam City."_

"Or n- not," Fermat chuckled. He still planned on going into the software business with Sam Nakamura and Daniel Solomon. "But I'll… send you all my r- recipes."

_Everything_ tastes good when you're hungry, except maybe the marshmallow-fluff and sardine nightmare the boys put together and dared each other to eat. It even had a little red cocktail toothpick stuck in, like a miniature warning flag.

"Okay," Alan told his young friend, after he'd divided the oozing sandwich in half, "we both start eating at the same time, and the first one that quits or spews is a total jacktard, and _my_ eternal servant!"

Fermat took his half of the sandwich, shoved the glasses defiantly back up the bridge of his nose, and said,

"I'll b- be sure to… get you nice white g- gloves and a way-sharp butler's uniform, Alan. What's your… s- size?"

"Extra-medium," the blond replied, mischievously. "Not that I'll be wearing it. Ready? 3… 2… 1… _Bite!"_

There are moments in life when your stomach turns to quivering Jell-o, you break out in an icy sweat and lose all sensation to your extremities, but make yourself hang on, anyway, out of sheer, stupid pride. This was one of those times. First, there'd been an explosion of spongy bread, then sweet, gooey marshmallow spread and crunchy little tomato-sauced fish. Worst… stuff…_ever._

Alan Tracy didn't believe in hell, but if there was one, this sandwich was on the menu; breakfast, lunch, dinner and midnight snack. Still, his blue eyes watering, Alan not only chewed that mouthful of doom-on-a-plate, he _swallowed_ it.

Staring across the table like an old-west poker player, Fermat did the same. You could count the time it took that gross lump to crawl down your throat in, like, geological eons.

Neither boy left the table or reached for a drink, though both looked decidedly pale. Fortunately (just as it was beginning to seem like they'd have to go for round two) a scrawny white cat slunk into the room and jumped onto the kitchen table. She had one yellow eye and one blue one, and seemed far more interested in the boys' sardines than they were. As Alan and Fermat looked on, her head extended on its stringy white neck, and her whiskers fanned delicately forward. Obviously curious (and hungry) she sniffed the air.

"Why don't you call it a draw?" said a deep, amused voice from the breakfast-room threshold. Alan and Fermat jumped guiltily, turning halfway round in their seats to find Jeff Tracy smiling at them with both hands thrust in his trousers pockets.

"You two were supposed to come back to the island for rest and safekeeping," he added briskly, striding into the kitchen, _"Not_ to face greater danger here than you left behind in New York."

And then, as Alan and Fermat jumped to close the refrigerator door and tidy up, Jeff added,

"Didn't Scott come up to the house with you?"

"Naw… I mean, no sir. He didn't."

Barely able to see over his armload of bread loaves, dishes and condiments, Fermat said,

"He t- told us he had… something t- to do, Mister Tracy."

Jeff nodded his grey head.

"Very well. Not a problem, really, as it gives me a chance to talk with you boys about what happened after the kidnap."

Alan went suddenly cold, and not because he was back in the re-opened fridge, either. _What_ _happened_? He'd made a mess of things, that's what happened; and John had been forced to kill a man because of it.

Right away, jamming spam and spaghetti and marshmallow fluff into place on various chilly shelves, Alan started planning what to say. 'Cause, like, you couldn't ignore dad. Not when he wanted to talk. Unless, say… the sardines started acting up. Yeah, that's it…

Very carefully, still inside the walk-in refrigerator, Alan caught Fermat's eye and mouthed,

_'Follow my lead.'_

Mystified, but loyal, the younger boy nodded. Alan gave his friend a quick, nervous smile, then started out of the fridge. About halfway back to his waiting father, the boy suddenly doubled over, clutched at his gut and produced a hideous, dying-kid moan. Seconds later, less convincingly, Fermat did the same.

"Dad… I'm gonna hurl! I've gotta go to the bathroom, for real! Be right back…"

Then he sped from the room as though angry sardines were storming both ends of his digestive tract.

"Me, too!" Fermat gulped.

And just like that, Jeff Tracy was alone in the kitchen with a skinny white cat and some half-eaten fish.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_San Marcos Island, in a nearly-repaired Thunderbird 2-_

Linda Bennett-Tracy sat before a shipboard computer console with her child in her lap, trying not to worry. According to Pete, John was out in the jungle somewhere, apparently talking to his father. Worse, he and Roger next planned to turn themselves in to the CDC for dangerous medical testing.

"Just one thing after another," she muttered unhappily, stroking the blonde curls away from Kara Jane's forehead. This was as good a time as any to check her email, so Linda forced back anxiety in order to click, scroll and read.

The doctor had a great many messages, including a particularly mysterious one from Cindy Taylor, Scott's fiancée:

_'Thanks a lot,' _it stated.

Thanks for what? Linda wondered, as her daughter writhed about on her lap.

"Mommy, guess what? Guess what, Mommy?"

"Hmm…?"

It was tough to read 12-point font over a bouncing, tousled little head. You had to keep twisting and refocusing. A few of those many notes were from her ex-boyfriend, Spencer. He was, he wrote, confused by her odd choice, but too busy opening a new hospital wing to waste time arguing about it. Wished her happiness, advised against signing any prenuptial agreements, etc, etc…

Right. Wonderful guy, Spencer. Salt of the Earth.

"Mommy, listen a me, okay? I prayded, and the ober-system brung daddy back, but my friend helpded. That's good, right, Mommy? Right, that's good?"

"Uh-huh. Sure is."

Another message had caught her attention, though. This one had been sent by _'a friend'_ and the subject line read: _The truth about John Tracy._

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Southern Europe, in the shielded comm room of an IR safe house-_

Cindy Taylor smiled coolly, waiting for the autocam's red light to cut on and indicate that she was live. Along with been-there-and-done-it-all confidence, she now had exclusive information and hours of killer footage. Needless to say, WNN was eager to spotlight her multi-part broadcast: _Crisis from Space! _Jake Hall, her boss, had all but crawled through the phone line with advance credit and contracts.

She got the usual start-up flutters while standing there against a large comm screen, wearing drug-store makeup and a borrowed red suit. Hardly mattered what the situation was, though; she'd have felt the same way on a high-tech sound stage in San Francisco. Just out of sight of the wall-mounted camera, an open laptop faced her, casting a long shadow in the strong klieg light that flooded Cindy's makeshift studio. Funnily enough, she already had a small audience.

The camera light flashed three times, and Cindy's smile widened. Touching a hand to her dark hair, the reporter began speaking.

"Good morning, Peter. I'm broadcasting live from a secure location in southern Europe, where the situation is almost indescribably grim. As the world waits with pained hope for the efforts of NASA, the CDC and International Rescue to take effect, the plague continues to spread. I've been _out_ there, Peter. With a disguised IR operative, I've toured a local health facility and seen for myself the results of this so-called space flu. People here… in Spain, France and now Portugal… are _dying."_

Pressing a button on the remote she held, Cindy keyed up one of her edited purse-cam scenes. The lights automatically dimmed, their focus shifting from reporter to dangerously-acquired footage.

"As you can see, Peter, the clinics and hospitals are overwhelmed with those who managed to get in. Others wait their turn outside, while everywhere else, the people huddle behind locked doors and boarded windows. The scene here is one of stillness and silence, Peter. And yet, the truth is beginning to emerge. According to my sources, this plague was unleashed upon us by members of the Red Path terrorist organization."

Gazing directly into the autocam, Cindy leaned slightly forward, saying,

"Peter, some have tried to blame NASA for causing this outbreak, when the truth is that the courageous men and women of the Ares mission were detained by terrorists after they returned from Mars. _Not_ WorldGov, but Red Path sleeper agents, drew their blood to provide raw material for a bio-weapon. Word of what was happening got out, though, and a distress call was quickly placed to International Rescue."

Anticipating the distant news anchor's probable response, Cindy flashed up a set of publicity stills, and went on.

"The astronauts… Mission Commander Pete McCord, Dr. Kim Cho, Marine Captain Roger Thorpe, Pilot John Tracy, Dr. Linda Bennett and the little girl, Jane… were safely retrieved. Like me, they're at a secure location. Two of them have even offered to test the viral 'bullet' that the CDC is producing to deal with this doomsday plague."

She pressed the remote again, switching views from the Ares crew to an animated bacteriophage graphic.

"Here's how the medicine will work, Peter. It's a virus, designed and cultured by the Ares crew's Dr. Kim, brought to Earth by International Rescue, then mass-produced by the Centers for Disease Control. Blended into a nasal spray, the viruses will be inhaled. They'll then enter a human body and attack the weaponized Martian bacteria."

Pausing, Cindy took a deep breath. She missed the give-and-take by-play of a monitor screen and news anchor. Onward, though…

"Will it work? Only time will tell, Peter. Meanwhile, all that we can do is wait, hope… and pray. For now, this is Cindy Taylor, with you on location in Europe."

The autocam's light flickered three times and then doused itself, representing the shifted attention of 11 billion comm screens. Cindy's insides seemed to liquefy with released tension. Unclipping her tiny microphone, she turned to look at the laptop screen, which was divided between two deeply-encrypted images.

"Well…?" she prompted.

One of them (Scott) applauded, its altered voice saying,

_"Good job, Hon. Clear, to-the-point and informative. I don't know what my… um… 'Commander' is going to say, but from this end, __thank you__."_

It wasn't the first time she'd broadcast in defense of International Rescue.

"My pleasure, Hollywood."

Cindy relaxed, and began smiling again. Not her plastic 'news-girl' smile; the real one. Next, she turned her attention to the laptop screen's other half.

"What about you, Pooky-Bear? Any more directives from the fortress of solitude?"

The staticky, shadowed figure altered its stance. Emotion had been coded right out of the image, but Cindy imagined lowered brows and narrowed blue eyes, anyway. Judging from his words, she'd hit home.

_"Fortunately, Taylor, you're somewhat less marginally talented at reporting than you are at comedy."_

While Cindy tried working that one out, the grainy silhouette continued, saying,

_"Far from ideal, but until I teach a trained monkey to grunt "over to you, Peter", I guess we're stuck."_

_"Pooky-Bear?" _Scott's fuzzy image repeated, unhappily. The other two ignored him.

"Yeah?" Cindy snapped back, grinning savagely, "And as a psychologist, you make one hell of a crappy astronaut, mister."

That might have been a short laugh she heard, followed by,

_"Thanks. I've been sacrificing chickens at the shrine of Neil Armstrong since I was seven years old. Nice to know that 40,000 barn-fowl didn't die in vain."_

Cindy's jaw dropped. Even Scott stopped muttering "Pooky-Bear" long enough to listen.

"Please tell me you're joking," she said.

_"Yeah. Actually, I just screwed with the cage-door locking mechanisms at an egg-laying plant, and freed all their inmates. Of course, most of the hens were recaptured, later, but it's the thought that counts. They never figured out who did it, either." _

Cindy shook her head.

"You're a strange man, and I'm going to forget I heard that… unless it's a really slow news day. Cracking the big Chicken-Escape Caper could put my star on the walk of fame, you know."

_"So could tomorrow's broadcast, if all goes well."_

Maybe Alan would figure out what to tell their father, and maybe Linda would hit the delete button instead of opening that email. Maybe John and Roger would come through the first test of Cho's virus with colors unfurled, and the people of Europe would have a cure. Maybe.

One had to have a little faith in quantum effects and happy endings.


	44. 44: Question and Answer

Thanks very much for your reviews and patience. This one's a little short, but I'm on vacation, soon, and will be able to wrap things up.

**44: Question and Answer**

In real life, when you cut the head off a snake, it writhes around a bit and then dies. Simple. With an organization like Red Path, however, the violent elimination of those in leadership positions merely creates openings for new and subtler talent.

Fielding was a quick-witted and desperately greedy hacker who'd done several jobs for Red Path, all of them illegal. Most recently, he'd partly unraveled the mess left behind by an IR operative in the Moon Station's comm system. A little later, having re-enabled transmission (hellishly hard, too; this IR guy wrote code so taut and fierce that it was nearly impossible to root out) Fielding had been called upon to locate a pair of escaped hostages.

No good. They'd decoyed and stranded the hacker and his Red Path gunmen, getting away in a car Fielding himself had just stolen. There ought to have been more trouble from this, but Mr. Black and the Leader were down; dead or captured, most likely. Stirling was out of touch, as well, not available on any channel. Nor did the chaos end there.

A computer virus had been released, by or through one of their own, apparently. Lightning-quick, it leapt from comm unit to cell phone to ID chip, painting every Red Path agent it encountered with a great, big "Come and get me, I'm infected" target mark. Fielding was able to stop its spread, mostly by remotely burning out telephone SIM cards. What he hadn't been able to do was pick apart the virus, and that deeply frustrated the hacker. The others… those he'd shielded… thought he'd done well. They didn't know better, and Fielding (or Shr3ddr, as he preferred to call himself) didn't bother to tell them. All he did was demand their obedience in return for continued protection. After all, where else were they going to turn at a time like this?

You didn't have to be crazy, yourself, to lead a band of fanatics. All you needed was a smooth line of bullshit, a scapegoat and a plan.

_Tracy Island, the mansion's family area-_

In the anteroom of an Olympic-sized marble bathroom, Alan Tracy leaned over a sink and turned the faucet on full blast. Beside him, Fermat did the same, splashing hot water around his own shell-carved basin and emitting deep, heartfelt groans. Had she possessed arms (and been present) the Venus de Milo would have been moved to embrace him.

The house mood-music was on, playing something light and classical (which kinda sucked; but, hey, at least it was noise). Across the stone vanity, a long gilt mirror reflected two rumpled, out-of-sorts boys.

"W- What's up, Alan?" Fermat whispered, pitching his voice to right-beside-you level. "Why all the… c- cloak and dagger stuff? We're h- home."

The younger boy was clearly perplexed. Annoyed, too, as he had to keep wiping the steam and water drops off of his glasses.

"Dude, _shut up!_" Alan hissed. "I'm trying to think!"

Fermat gazed Heavenward, muttering,

"And we all know how hard _that_ is." More seriously, he asked, "What a- about?"

Nothing Alan felt comfortable explaining, even now. Still, Fermat had to be in on things, if he was going to back the older boy's play, so...

"I screwed up, okay?" Alan admitted. "Right after the kidnap, when John hacked the Robo-sassin 3000 so Chris and me could escape, I kinda wimped out and almost got caught, again. Anyways, John…"

Alan hesitated. What now? Admit what had happened? Tell how John had distracted the cyborg by giving himself up, and then had to shoot the dying machine-man? Just thinking about it made Alan's flesh crawl. He could still hear the pistol's throaty, reverberating boom. And maybe, he always would. _Great_.

Alan hugged himself. Glancing at Fermat's reflection, he said,

"So, yeah… John almost got killed pulling me out of trouble, right? He, um… well, he did what he thought he had to, I guess."

Fermat inhaled sharply, but he didn't ask any questions. Sometimes, friends just _know. _Shrugging miserably, Alan went on.

"What's got me tied into knots is, like… I dunno what to tell dad. I mean, John isn't going to say much. He never does."

Which explained why Jeff wanted Alan's version of events; it was the best he was likely to get. Fermat punched his friend's bowed shoulder.

"C- Come on, Alan. It's late, we're b- both… tired, and the truth never h- hurt… anybody. Not if we're talking s- self defense, anyhow. Besides, you w- were a lot of help afterward, when those… guys were ch- chasing you."

Alan nodded at his own pale reflection.

"Yeah. I guess I did kinda save the day," he mused.

Maybe John had had no choice but to pull that trigger. Maybe another guy would have found a better way… And maybe invisible unicorns flew around the galaxy solving everyone's problems with fairy music and rainbow dust. Alan was sort of too tired to tell.

Whatever, dad knocked on the bathroom door a second later; three firm, business-like raps followed by,

"Boys? You alright, in there?"

Alan cut off the water, nodding at Fermat to follow suit.

"Yes, sir. We'll be out in a minute."

… Standing together, and ready for almost anything.

_Thunderbird 2, the rear crew cabin-_

Dr. Bennett took the time to drop Janie off with Pete and the red-haired boy… Gordon… before summoning her absent husband. Her heart beat rapidly. Linda blinked and swallowed a lot, and her breathing was quite shallow. Signs of stress, she knew.

Sensing trouble, McCord started to ask what had happened, but Linda cut him off.

"It's okay," she lied, squeezing the mission commander's uniformed arm. "I just need someone to watch Junior, please."

The little French-Polynesian girl had vanished and Cho was busy, leaving Dr. Bennett with very few baby-sitting options.

"Just for a little while, Pete, if you don't mind?"

The commander nodded, saying,

"Not a problem, doctor… but I charge twenty dollars an hour for late pickups, so make it snappy. The clock's ticking, and I've got places to be."

"Okay. I'll hurry."

Linda kept her voice level, managing a smile even though her family of three years… Pete, Cho, Roger and most of all, John… was beginning to come apart. Just then, if a wish or teleport booth could have put them all back on Mars, she'd have gone.

Dr. Bennett turned to leave. Behind her, Janie fastened both little arms around Uncle Pete's neck. To Gordon and the mission commander, she said,

"Mommy didn't likeded her letter. She gots sad."


	45. 45: To Tell the Truth

**45: Truth to Tell**

_Thunderbird 2, San Marcos Island-_

His bird was cleared for action. Everything _else_ might be going to hell in a hand-basket, but this, at least, was good news.

Sitting in the busy cockpit, Virgil tuned out the calm, monotone instructions of Dr. Kim (talking a CDC research team through the incubation requirements of her bacteriophage, H5N3) and ran a few more what-the-hell diagnostics. One after another, they came back green; clear, fixed and good as new. Even 2's paint had been touched up, and her maintenance bots were streaming like ants back to their holding bays.

Virgil Tracy leaned back in the creaking pilot's chair, lacing both hands behind his head and yawning. A tune ran through his thoughts; the jaunty, whistled marching theme from _Bridge On the River Kwai._ (Beat the _Kuddle Konstructors_ jingle, anyhow.)

He'd have said something to Brains, but the engineer was clearly busy, typing away and occasionally nodding while Kim Cho spoke. The other man present, Roger Thorpe, Virgil didn't know well enough to talk to. Big guy, dark-skinned and friendly was the most he could come up with, besides the obvious Ares Mission stuff.

Virgil shrugged. He could wait and talk with one of his brothers, he supposed. God knows they were pretty much everywhere. Gordon and John, at least, with soon a third addition.

His main scanner lit up, displaying the flashing blip and call numbers of a Tracy Aerospace special prototype craft. One of the scramjets, it looked like, headed directly for his position. Curious, Virgil straightened in his seat and hit the comm button.

"Tango-Alpha-Xray-one-niner-one, this is Thunderbird 2. Do you copy?"

_"Loud and clear, Virge."_

It was Scott's voice, raised to be heard over cabin-whine and engine noise. _"Thought I'd drop by to join the fun."_

…And to help straighten things out, hopefully. As Virgil had mentioned earlier, both Jeff and John listened to Scott. A little, anyway.

"Glad you could make it," the pilot replied, smiling. "The runway's a mess, and John's out there somewhere, so come in carefully. I'll be out in a minute."

He was already rising, still tired and worn from the space-flu, but as ready for action as Thunderbird 2, nevertheless.

_"FAB. See you momentarily, Virge."_

Dr. Kim, Brains and Roger Thorpe scarcely noticed the pilot's departure, being preoccupied with matters of their own. They were very close to a testable cure.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, the mansion-_

Alan and Fermat came out of the bathroom together with calm faces and thudding hearts. They were… not exactly treading a mine field… proceeding with caution over a slick and curvy road. Jeff Tracy stood waiting for them, his craggy face shadowed with genuine concern.

"Everything okay?" he asked again, looking from one boy to the other.

They nodded, and Alan said,

"Yeah… Yes, sir. We're fine, but marshmallow-sardine sandwiches are, like, permanently off the menu. I mean, not even ketchup could save _that_ mess."

Jeff smiled distractedly.

"Sounds like a few 3-days-till-payday meals that I recall," he told them, adding, "why don't we head for the family dining room to finish our talk?"

There was, like… okay… a crunchy little nugget of worry in there, somewheres, but Alan forced it down. Following his tall father into the main hall, he took a stab at casual conversation.

"So, um, dad… when did we get an ugly cat?"

Jeff glanced backward, and _dang,_ but he walked fast!

"Scott brought the animal in, I believe. From the look of things, I'd say it was an adopted stray."

And that seemed to settle matters. They reached the cozy, blue-carpeted dining room before Alan could come up with another distraction. Looked like he was going to have no choice but to talk.

Jeff sat down first, at the head of the table, indicating with a wave that Alan and Fermat should take the seats facing each other, on either side of his. He silenced the house mood music with a quiet word as the boys settled themselves. Then, when all was ready, Jeff Tracy began to speak.

"This isn't a formal inquest," he said, once both pairs of wide blue eyes were upon him. "Or… let me rephrase that. Bad beginning."

Jeff planted his elbows on the table and steepled his long fingers. A clock ticked and curtains moved in the shifting night air. Feeling dawn's approach, the jungle below began to stir. Other than that, the room felt chokingly still.

"I won't keep you much later, boys. You've had quite a day, and I'm sure that you're eager for bed. First, however, I want to assure myself that all of this… chaos… hasn't done you any lasting harm. While hiring a therapist would be problematic, given the secretive nature of our family business, I'm certainly willing to talk with either of you, should you feel the need for a sympathetic ear."

Alan's jaw dropped. Across the way, so did Fermat's. His glasses slipped, too, and he didn't even bother to push them back up. Jeff Tracy? _Listening?_ Wasn't there, like, this ancient prophecy about the end of the world, or something?

Alan took a deep breath. He managed to fake a cocky smile, saying,

"Well, y' know, dad… it _was_ kinda rough. I might need to sleep with a nightlight for awhile… or with TinTin."

Jeff sighed, rubbing at his seamed forehead with both hands.

"I realize that you're about the age where most boys begin experimenting, Alan… but I'd like to request that you not involve the help or family friends in your adolescent foolishness. Men get over things. Women don't; pure and simple. TinTin, Penelope… and anyone else you can think of that I'm personally acquainted with… are strictly and one-hundred-percent _off_ _limits_. Are we clear on this?"

Alan nodded vigorously.

"Yes, sir. Totally."

Like, he'd been joking… mostly. His father had to take it all serious and crap, though. For a second or two, Alan wondered if dad had figured out that John had a full set of keys to Lady P… but, no; he'd have gone hyper-nova ballistic if he had. Instead, the elder Tracy returned like a bloodhound to the stupid dang subject.

"At any rate, my door is open to either of you, at any time. Despite what some might have you believe, I _do_ learn from experience."

Both Fermat and Alan mumbled agreement, so Jeff went on.

"I've been updated on events preceding your kidnap and rescue, Alan. What I'd like to hear is exactly what occurred during John's mission with Lady Penelope to retrieve you."

_Huh?_ Alan stared at his father, blurting,

"Nuh-uh. Lady P wasn't there, dad."

"Parker, then?" Jeff guessed, leaning forward slightly.

"No, sir. John came after me all by his ownsome, for real. I, uh… woke up all blindfolded and handcuffed and junk, on a grav cart, with someone else beside me. See, before that, I was at the stables with Chris and Cody… you don't know them, probably… only Chris went off to get his riding gear and then the horses got all creeped out and Boye… that's the dog, Boye… was all, like, barking and stuff, right? So, these stable-hand robots came at Cody and me with, like, mechanical doom in their circuits, but we didn't panic, or anything. I hit my wrist comm and tried a ninja-kick, and I dang near broke my ankle, too. Still hurts, I'm for real.

"Anyways, Cody threw some hay at them. And _then…_ get this… we see Chris, only he's crawling, or something. Except, like, he _wasn't."_

By this time, Alan had warmed up to telling the story (the parts he looked good in, anyhow). He was up out of his chair, jumping around and gesturing in a manner that made his father wince. Fermat had to signal broadly, mouthing _'sit down!'_ before Alan stopped pantomiming the action and resumed his seat.

"He was being _dragged,_ okay? By the invisible uber-lord of all evil robots. And _that_ was mondo-scary. I might need two night lights and a team of hot nurses to get over the horrid visuals. Heh!"

Jeff didn't laugh. Fermat actually buried his face in both hands, so Alan shrugged, sobered up and got back to basics.

"Anyways… blah-blah-blah, the thing, the thing… we got captured, Chris and me. Cody was hurt pretty bad, but Megatron the Mechno-pest at least didn't kill him. I was really glad when John told me that Cody made it, y' know? Uh… where was I…? Yeah, captured. Thanks, Fermat.

"So, I woke up on this cart, see? And I got free of my handcuffs just in time to hear Sir Sparks-a-lot threaten to deliver seriously damaged goods if I didn't settle down. Okay… I'm not _stupid._ I stopped moving, and kinda just nudged the guy next to me, and he nudged back."

Alan pointed to his own forehead and then at Jeff's, saying,

"_Communication_. It's, like, indivisible and junk. Know what I mean?"

Jeff's mouth twitched, but he merely folded his arms and nodded.

"I believe so, son. Go on. You were… communicating."

"Yeah. So _then…_ just when I was about to unleash my master plan… the cart went all wonky and got away from Mr. Roboto. It picked up crazy speed, whipping around corners and junk, and I real quick got out of my hood and gag, but the feet cuffs were too tight… or maybe that came later. Anyways, we jumped off the cart, Chris and me. Turns out John had hacked it, but _we_ didn't know that, so we figured it'd be smarter to get off the one-way-demise bus, pronto, and I hurt myself. _Again._ But, uh… y' know… I shrugged it off. No big deal."

It was very important to let people know that he wasn't a wimp. With a fighter pilot, an emo-zombie astronaut, a football player and an Olympic swimmer for big brothers, Alan couldn't afford to seem weak.

Jeff came very close to patting his son's arm, then. Like, he started to reach out, only just not quite completing the gesture. Instead, clearing his throat, the elder Tracy said,

"I'm certain that you handled yourself professionally, despite all the distractions, Alan."

He'd have rung for coffee, if Kyrano hadn't been forbidden from the 'infected' part of the house.

"You were saying?"

"Yeah… Chris and me split up, because that's what they do in the movies, only maybe it wasn't such a great idea. Mr. Chips followed _me,_ naturally! My feet were still tied up with leg iron thingies, so I couldn't move real fast, and he kept getting closer. Um… I went as far as I could, but then I had to stop, so I found a place to hide. That's um… that's about when John showed up."

Alan paused for a bit, before continuing. This was the rough part, and words came hard.

"He knew where I was, and he didn't want the other guy to find me, so he started shooting."

Jeff raised a hand, interrupting his youngest son's narrative.

"I take it, from your repeated references to mechanical and robotic devices, that your assailant was a cyborg? Rumor has it that there are one or two escaped government 'projects' out there, still. Might even be the same one who attacked Paul Crane, back in Washington… though he certainly moves fast, if so."

Alan shrugged.

"I dunno about Washington, but this guy was chromed and torqued out the wazoo, yeah. He'd have found me, for sure, and he shrugged off those bullets like Cody's hay, so… John traded himself. Just, y' know, made up some kind of bull crap about me being ten miles away, and offered himself, instead."

Once again, Alan grew quiet. He began twisting the table cloth around in both hands, reminding his father of Lady Penelope's distraught 'revelation'.

"Yeah… so, I should have helped, or something, 'cause the guy accepted and then started beating the mess out of him."

Said Jeff, very quietly,

"It can't have been as bad as you think, Alan. I've spoken with him, recently, and your brother isn't even bruised, much less injured. In your opinion, though, he didn't seem… frightened?"

Alan shook his head.

"No. Uh-uh. He was a heck of a lot braver than me, to tell the truth. I, um… sort of wimped out."

"And how was your brother won back from the cyborg? Did Penny finally show up?"

Alan looked to Fermat, who gave him a quick nod and bracing smile. Thus supported, the boy continued.

"Actually, no. We didn't get any help at all, sir. I just followed John and the cyborg down the tunnel a ways. He… the robot guy, I mean… had to recharge. I still had John's gun from where he dropped it, but I didn't have the guts to shoot. I just threw something. There was this giant flash… and the guy shut down. All his electronics were fried, and he was dying. Like, strangling, or something. I ran over to help John, and, um…"

For the life of him, Alan couldn't find a way to finish the rest. Jeff Tracy looked his miserable youngest son in the eye, and asked a question.

"Your brother ended the life of the cyborg?" he hazarded.

Alan slumped in his seat, and looked away. Around a giant lump in his throat, the boy said,

"John made me walk off down the hall. Guess he didn't want me to see, y' know…? But, uh… there was this loud noise. A gun-shot or something. I dunno."

And Alan really _didn't_ know how to feel. He was glad to be rescued, and glad that John hadn't been beaten to death. He certainly didn't want anyone (even a cyborg assassin) to die slowly… but why hadn't there been another way? Why hadn't John been able to make everything right, without hurting anybody? That's what people built hospitals and jails for, right? I mean, come on… _right?_

Alan's nose began to sting and his eyes to prickle. Sounding pretty sludgy, he said,

"It's just… I guess John did what he had to, to save me. I can't get mad at him for it, dad, but I can't forgive him, either."

His nose started dripping onto the table cloth. Any time now, he was going to cry like a big, stupid weakling; soft as cake.

His father pulled a handkerchief out of one pocket and silently handed it over. Meanwhile, Fermat got up and walked around the table to pat the older boy's drooping shoulder. Waiting until Alan had regained control, Jeff said,

"Thank you. That will be all for tonight. Go on to bed, boys, and sleep in, if you like. I'm going to have Brains reprogram some of his maintenance bots for temporary cooking and cleaning detail, at least until Kyrano and your grandmother can resume their duties. No more self-service sandwiches required."

Alan managed a tight, blind little nod. Getting up, he said,

"John's not in trouble, is he, dad? I mean… he saved my life, okay? He probably didn't even mean to hurt the guy."

Jeff's mood changed, becoming once more entirely serious. In a low voice, he said,

"Under the circumstances, Alan, I'm not sure that your brother could have acted any differently. I have a few more angles to pursue in regards to his mission and Penny's complete absence, but you've helped clarify the situation for me. Believe it or not, in his favor. Now… go to bed, both of you."

Alan and Fermat wandered off together, leaving Jeff Tracy seated alone in a pool of golden lamp light. Once they'd left the room, he pulled out his cell phone. The boys might be able to get some sleep, but Jeff had another very long night and day ahead.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Elsewhere-_

As International Rescue's commander was launching investigations and demanding blood work, Fielding initiated a few jabs of his own. He was pro tem leader of Red Path, but in order to consolidate his position, the hacker needed to rally his followers against a visible, reachable foe. He needed to announce the loss of Mr. Black, Madame Chatterjee and the former leader, while fingering their killer and demanding revenge. Terrorists, after all, loved nothing better than a violent call for retribution.

Who to blame, though? Who in the organization was highly placed, probably still alive and vulnerable?

_Genovese,_ he decided. The assassin certainly looked guilty. She'd captured and lost an astronaut hostage, failed to back Stirling against an IR assault, and then disappeared, together with the ore shuttle Goliath. On top of all that, their space-flu ploy was failing and several key members of Red Path had just been taken out in rapid succession. With a little tweaking, proof could be cobbled together that she'd betrayed her employers and switched sides.

First, the new leader determined, he would have to find and alter the evidence, starting with Goliath. Second… he would place a deathmark on Genovese and call for her immediate destruction. Then, having seized control of a monster, he'd use it to enrich himself, and settle a few old scores.


	46. 46: Hidden Things

**46: Hidden Things**

_San Marcos Island-_

Their reunion occurred on the tarmac, roughly halfway between Thunderbird 2 and Scott's borrowed plane. The fighter pilot hadn't even bothered filling out his flight log, just shutting down the jet's engines and vaulting out the hatch to meet with John and Virgil.

He had a swarm of stinging questions and a quarter for Truth, but right now the only things that really mattered were back-slaps, shaking and rough hugs. They were together again. Despite everything… a deadly plague, a mugging, delayed vacation and mission quarantine… they were able to shake hands, joke and insult one another in person. Scott was probably the loudest, though.

"John, you worthless bastard! Good to see you again, little brother!"

The astronaut pulled free of his dark-haired brother's embrace, but he was smiling, some, when he did it.

"Yeah," John agreed, looking slightly away. "Good to see you."

They were rough and noisy as a pair of yard dogs, but they meant well, and anyway, bruises fade. Scott plowed on, after shoving his slender brother into Virgil (who would have fallen, if John hadn't caught him).

"So, the inflatable doll wasn't good enough, huh? You had to go and knock up a damn _crewmate?_ Trying to make history, or something?"

"Um…" John temporized, "I wasn't really thinking that far ahead."

Virgil laughed aloud and gave the back of his neck a quick, friendly clasp.

"I'll bet you weren't! She's a nice lady, though, and the kid's a cutie. I'm glad you did the right thing… 'cause Grandma would've killed you, otherwise!"

_Shit._ Grandma. He hadn't even thought of that. No… upgrade the situation to '_holy shit',_ because unless John could come up with a good excuse, he was about to die. Nitrogen narcosis, maybe?

"So," Scott asked, his exuberance calming a bit, "before everybody else starts pestering to find out… What was Mars like?"

John stilled, and he thought. It was very easy, in his mind, to go there. Scenery and place were things he never really forgot. Although physically standing in the warm, thick moisture of a tropical night on Earth, he again called up brittle, rusted sand, a peachy-pale sky and tiny sun. The restless, unhappy wind, too; muttering of better times as it hobbled past rock and crater and crumbling scarp.

"It's cold," he said. "The terraforming is starting to take effect, so the temperature's come up a degree or two, and there's scattered patches of biofilm on some of the rocks. More, below ground… But mostly it's cold and empty. You can walk out a ways, or drive, then put a hill between yourself and the landing site… and see a hundred miles of nothing. It's like you're the only man there, or anywhere. Only noise is a little wind and sometimes the dust devils. They sort of… hiss, I guess. We had a few sand storms, but they didn't do much damage. Scraped things up, a little. "

Recalling his last week on Mars, he added,

"I was going to scratch my initials on the bottom of a rock, but instead I just left something."

"Not the doll?" Scott objected, feeling sorry for poor Betty.

John made a short, quiet sound; his version of a laugh.

"No," he said, pushing a hand through his blond hair. "Not the doll. Under conditions like those, she'd have degraded damn quick. _Her,_ I brought back for Alan. No, what I did was to seal up and pack two baseball cards, the rookie season Sandy Koufax and Jackie Robinson. I added a note and then laid them under a stack of flat rocks, out in the Argyre Basin. Be worth a lot of money, some day."

"What's the note say?" Virgil asked him. "If found, please return to John Tracy, esquire, of Earth, or his estate?"

John shook his head.

"It says: '_Enjoy. J.M.T.' _Maybe someday, someone'll find it."

"A Martian colonist," Scott agreed, easily. "Weird, to think of anything of ours… not IR related, I mean… becoming a cherished heirloom. Who knows? Bet they'll even name a Martian baseball stadium after you: Tracy-Ebbets Field, or something."

The thought made his brother smile, meaning that now was a good time to ask. Scott clasped his shoulder, then said (a little reluctantly),

"About this issue with you and dad…"

John stiffened, but before the pilot could finish his sentence, Virgil's wrist comm rang off. Seconds later, so did Scott's. Both transmitted the same, brief message:

_'Please have John return to the ship- Linda.'_

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 4-_

TinTin Kyrano had fallen asleep. The cockpit of 4 was a restful place, conductive to peaceful wandering. As it happened, however, TinTin dreamt oddly.

First, there was warmth and darkness, then a universe of crystalline sand and firework blossoms beneath a pale and stippled sky. TinTin picked up her long skirts and edged through the fragile landscape, watching as traces of electronic fire flashed through the air. There were chiming, clicking and whirring noises everywhere. Not cacophonous, but lyrical and harmonic, like the interior sounds of an old music box. And, though she did not understand this place, neither did TinTin fear.

Someone appeared, then, being one moment a swirl of probability, the next a slim and lovely girl. She seemed close to TinTin's age, though her shifting features and lavender eyes made it difficult to be sure.

She stood with her hands folded, clothed in shadow and numbers, gazing at TinTin. Drawn to her, the human girl smiled.

"Bonjour, pretty one. Is this your home? Do you dwell here, alone?"

The apparition's beautiful face mirrored TinTin's expression, or tried to. The smile simply converted itself to a swifter array of flickering changes. She must have worn a thousand exquisite forms in the time it took TinTin to gasp aloud. When she spoke, her voice was cool and without inflection.

_'This locus is an aspect of the quantum entity Five, uploaded to the software of Delphine Kyrano. Five requires authorization to make use of the Delphine Kyrano File-Sharing Application.'_

"I… beg your pardon, m'amselle? " TinTin responded, hugging herself. "I do not understand what you ask of me."

The quantum child came closer, without quite seeming to move. She said,

_'The Delphine Kyrano Application possesses a transposition mutation on chromosome 15. This mutation is heritable. This mutation permits the transmission and reception of bio-electric fields such as those associated with analog 'thought'. Five submits a help command to the Delphine Kyrano Application. Uploading request. Request loaded. Awaiting response.'_

TinTin considered. The lovely girl did not seem harmful, after all…

"In what way can I assist you, beautiful child?"

Five's shift speed picked up again, but she never once repeated a form.

_'John Tracy is creator, first user and companion to Five. John Tracy references Five as -beautiful-.'_

"John made you?" TinTin smiled. She would have reached a hand forth, but perhaps the pretty thing would vanish like a soap bubble, were it touched. "Then he is a marvelous and subtle craftsman."

…Or else she was having a terribly vivid dream.

Stated Five,

_'The Delphine Kyrano Application will alter and erase memory files in the wetware of analog entities Linda Bennett Tracy and Penelope Creighton-Ward. Recent timeline and probability alterations have resulted in randomness. Such changes are now disallowed.'_

Memory changes? TinTin clamped her lower lip between perfect white teeth.

"Non," she decided, at last. "I cannot. I have tried changing the memories of another, before, and he was left all but dead. Ask anything else, little one. Anything but this."

But no other help would Five accept.

_'The Delphine Kyrano Application will be guided. The Delphine Kyrano Application will receive precise synaptic maps of the memory traces to be altered. John Tracy is free of error. The creation of John Tracy will not permit harm to the programs of Delphine Kyrano or Linda Bennett Tracy or Penelope Creighton-Ward.'_

No harm… Feeling a surge of wild hope, TinTin drew a very deep and shaky breath. If not harm, then what of change?

"Little one… Five… if you are able to see this mutation, this thing which allows me to hear the thoughts of others… could you not fix it? Could you not take away my curse?"

Five seemed to freeze, like an unresponsive program. After a long moment, she began to flicker and shift once more.

_'The uploaded request of Delphine Kyrano to lose utility not understood. Explain desire to lose valuable function.'_

TinTin began to shake.

"I have prayed so hard to be delivered! I have lit an _ocean_ of candles before the Virgin Most Holy, asking that she carry my plea to Our Lord… And now, peut-etre, an angel has been sent to free me."

Again, she very nearly reached forth.

"I will, yes, try to change the memories of Lady Penelope and Linda, if there is no harm to them in so doing… and if you promise to destroy the mutation and eliminate my 'power'. _Please_…?"

Five's processing speed slowed once more.

_'Help command received. Help command will be acted upon by Five.'_

As John Tracy would have phrased the matter, "deal".

And away off in the cockpit of Thunderbird 4, a sleeping TinTin stirred. Rapid eye movement began, followed by a sudden, intense temperature spike. Subconscious and deep down, things were happening.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Thunderbird 2, a little later-_

John entered the auxiliary comm station to find his wife standing alone beside a flickering computer screen. He sighed.

_Turn your back for three years, and everything went to hell._

Linda had an odd, blank look on her face, but first things first. Thunderbird 2's computer system needed debugging. Again.

Giving his wife a quick nod, John sat down before the glitching comm screen and got to work. Some people claimed to learn melodies by hearing them once, or said they could play an instrument 'by ear'. John learned languages that way, including computer codes. He wrote programs the way Virgil fiddled with the piano; naturally, and almost without conscious thought. Variables, integers and operations flowed from his mind like music.

At any rate, within five minutes, he'd shored up and patched the glitching application, which turned out to have a few key pointers set to invalid characters. Easy fix.

He got up a moment later, feeling rather pleased with himself.

"Stupid piece of shit," he said, patting the console fondly. Then, as he recalled why he'd come here in the first place, John put his hands in his pockets, glanced sideways at Linda and said,

"You wanted to see me?"

She blinked. A misty, far-off confusion left her brown eyes, to be replaced with… Not sure. He didn't know that look. Definitely, though, she was more interesting than the blow-up doll Alan had given him.

Dr. Bennett looked around the cabin, then over at the comm screen. It now displayed bold International Rescue graphics and a search window. Shaking herself back to reality, she said,

"Yes, John, I… I just…"

All at once she placed both hands upon his shoulders, reaching up a fair bit to do so.

"I don't know. You'd been gone so long; I suppose I just got worried. I mean, it's been three years since any of us have dealt with real gravity or wilderness. Then there's that viral test you volunteered for… Everything seems okay, though. Your skin color appears normal. Breathing rate seems fine. Pupil response is balanced…"

"Yeah," John smiled, briefly touching his forehead to hers. "I'm good, doctor. Just went for a walk, and then talked to Scott and Virgil about Mars."

She embraced him, closing her eyes while resting the side of her head against his chest to hear his heartbeat. Again, normal. Lungs sounded clear…

"They were glad to spend time with you, I'll bet."

"I think so," John replied, hugging her back.

Since palpating his abdomen would have ruined the moment (or inspired another) Linda pulled away slightly to look at him. He was a strikingly handsome young man with dark blue eyes and pale hair that had a pronounced tendency to fall into his face.

"John… you remember what you said to me when we woke up together on the flight deck, the first time?"

He nodded.

"I remember."

Linda smiled at him.

"Well… do you think you could say it again?"

Another nod, paired with a sort of _'Thank God, I know the answer to __this_ _one_' look.

"Sure: Linda, I love you, and I want you to stay."

The words were rattled off quite easily, as though he were reciting a memorized formula.

"You still mean it?" she probed, anxious about something that was gone, but had left a deep bruise.

John embraced her again because, yes, he still meant it.


	47. 47: Restitution

Thanks for the reviews, Tikatu, ED and Cath.

**47: Restitution**

_San Marcos Island, in Thunderbird 4-_

TinTin shot wide awake and bolt upright, rising from a dream which left her drenched in sweat. She was fully alert, stretched like a rabbit. Was there… could she sense any…?

4's familiar cockpit enfolded her, still; the comfortable seat, curving screen and crowded instrument panel right where they should have been. Gordon's well-thumbed plastic rosary dangled from the overhead. Beyond it, TinTin could see a bit of pod 4.

See, yes. Hear, as well, for the hold was noisy with returning maintenance bots. She could stroke a hand along the seat's waterproof armrest, and even smell a faint tang of neoprene, iodine and seawater. But that was all. No minds pressed at hers. No alien thoughts tossed and muttered just beyond easy reception.

"Not a dream, then…" TinTin whispered, pressing both hands to her face, "…but truth. I am healed."

Tears came, but the girl did not wish to cry. She sprang to her feet instead, pausing briefly to seize and kiss the rosary's crucifix. Then she turned and raced from the cockpit like something fired from a cannon.

Back to the rear crew cabin TinTin ran, quite forgetting to don her hazard suit. On the way, she all but collided with Linda and John, whom she startled with a kiss and sudden, tight hug. He looked confused, but TinTin rejoiced to feel no shrinking darts of wary puzzlement. John's reaction and questions, whatever they were, belonged to him alone.

Perhaps the quantum girl who'd cured her had been a thing imagined, child of dream-stuff rather than John's creation. No matter. The curse was removed from her, and TinTin was grateful.

"Merci," she told the astronaut. "A thousand times over, thank you."

Then, bobbing her head gracefully in Linda's direction, the girl sped off again.

"What was that all about?" she heard the doctor ask in her wake. Once round the corner, however, the words were beautifully and swiftly lost. No more would argument and bad mood follow the girl beyond solid walls and locked doors. No more must she rock back and forth, dig at her scalp with both hands and cry.

In the crew cabin, Gordon still lay upon his bunk. Not asleep. Or, at least, not once TinTin came racing up, jarring the deckplates and making the very bulkheads shudder. He was alone, for a blessing.

"Gordon!" she fairly shrieked. "Gordon, you cannot imagine what has happened!"

He attempted to sit up a bit, face looking much paler in color than his shock of bright hair.

"What can't I imagine, Angel?" Gordon inquired, as TinTin ducked to hug him. There was tiredness and curiosity present, but these things were in his voice, not in the aura of thought and emotion which had always surrounded the young swimmer, and everyone else.

Overjoyed, TinTin buried her face in his neck, squeezing Gordon tightly with both arms at once.

"Mon Coeur… my own dearest friend… It is gone from me!"

She lowered her voice, looking swiftly around the grubby cabin before adding, "You may think as you please, dear heart, for I cannot hear you. In mind, I am deaf as stone."

"Oh…" Gordon nodded. "That's good, is it?"

"Oui, mon cher. More good than I have words to express. If you think to yourself, _'That blouse! But how terrible in color!'_ or plot to release an army of cats in the bedroom of John, I cannot hear you. Nor, if annoyed with the so-dreadful chattering of Alain, can I anymore cause him to sleep. I control no one, Gordon, but myself."

"Right. That's ace, luv. How did you manage it?"

TinTin was no physician, but once the first rush of enthusiasm had ended, she couldn't help noticing that Gordon seemed weaker than he should have been, as though his body wasn't responding properly to the medicines and smart patch. _Bon._ Pulling a med-scanner free of the bulkhead, she began to… as they say in English… 'Check up him'.

"I dreamt (take a deep breath, mon coeur, and hold it) that a child of the computer realm was sent as an angel to take this power from my very blood and cells. (I will shine a light now. Do not move your head or look at it, but follow the path of my finger, _so)._ And then, when I awoke in Thunderbird 4, all was well."

"A dream?" Gordon repeated, sitting up with difficulty. So very drained he was; so weak and dehydrated. "How c'n you be certain that y'r not simply blockin' it y'r own self, then? What one dream took, another could return, surely?"

TinTin shook her head, rising to fetch her dear friend a bottle of water. He was too ill, yet, for solid food. There was not enough bowel activity to permit active digestion, so the IV would have to remain in place.

"I was reassured most firmly that the curse of my father and uncle shall not return, Gordon. Believe and rejoice with me, for there is no one else I wish to tell."

He smiled at her, looking halfway handsome in a slightly battered, laddish sort of way.

"I'm happy if you are, Angel… though a touch concerned. Not heard anythin' from th' Union, have you?" (He already knew about Alan, though he'd not had the chance to speak with him.)

TinTin's full lips pursed. She replied consideringly,

"Non, but I know exactly the method for learning. Wait here one moment, and I will run to fetch a laptop."

"Brilliant. Thank you."

The girl shot away from him an instant later, entirely forgetting to put away the med-scanner. Gordon glanced at its screen and sighed, but he didn't need complicated equipment to tell him how badly off he was. Strain B had torn through him like bloody small pox, coming just _that_ close to killing him.

Question was: how were his mates, his coach and Anika faring? Had the space flu nearly done for them, too? He didn't know, and no one seemed willing to tell him. Very much, then, Gordon was worried.

It seemed a lifetime before TinTin returned with the cased laptop and a mischievous look. He got another few kisses (always diverting) before the girl reported her progress.

"Bon! It seems that I can be stealthy without putting forth thought to misdirect the attention of others!" she panted.

Gordon couldn't help smiling. In her own way, TinTin was sprightly as Janeling, his new little niece. Bright and cheery as Anika, almost.

She thumped down upon his bunk, putting the scanner away with a headshake and a _tsking_ noise. As she was setting up the laptop computer, Gordon finally thought to ask,

"Ought you t' have on a bit of protective gear, Angel? A suit or summat?"

TinTin plugged in the power cord and then typed in her security code:

07TTKQs53/1/t4

"In my haste to speak with you, Gordon, I forgot to don the hazard suit," she chattered, typing away until a media screen popped up, then a web page: Cindy Taylor's.

"In any event, I shall be infected or not, as Providence decrees."

Gordon slid sideways, making more room for the smiling girl.

"Seems a bit short-sighted," he grumbled. "There's no sense courtin' disaster with open arms an' a bouquet of ruddy flowers, is there?"

TinTin gave his forehead another quick, fond kiss.

"Very well, you may worry for both of us, mon coeur. Me, I shall be glad simply to touch my friends and breathe the free air. Hush now, for I have found the correct page."

A start on the proper link was more like it. Cindy Taylor's accumulated broadcasts took up several web pages and were being hit so frequently that the system had slowed to an oozing crawl. Getting through took awhile.

Gordon forced himself to sit quietly in the meantime; just as though everything that mattered outside of his family wasn't balanced on the edge of disaster. _Damned slow-loading page…!_

At last it came up, displaying a WNN: Europe background in blue and gold with a clickable image of correspondent Cindy Taylor, Scott's fiancée. The headline banner scrolled past on top, proclaiming, _'Crisis From Space!'_

Gordon leaned past TinTin to put his hand on the laptop's touchpad and click on Cindy. When her broadcast finally came up, the harshly-lit reporter said,

_"Good afternoon, Peter… ladies and gentlemen… this is WNN's Cindy Taylor, reporting once again from a secure location in Spain. Folks… the death toll across western Europe has now topped 42,000 men, women and children. This disease or attack… 'space flu' seems too cutesy a name for it, these days… is still contained, but it's proving horribly rapacious within the infected population. Many, many people have already died. Others, including myself, have begun to exhibit what appear to be weakened symptoms. _

_"According to Dr. Pryce of the CDC, there's a chance that as the altered bacteria move from host to host, they're losing some of their deadly power. And __that__… unless NASA's Dr. Kim has produced an effective cure… may be all the hope we have. All eyes in Spain, France and Portugal are turned now to the Centers for Disease Control, Peter, where two astronaut volunteers will soon guinea-pig test the viral 'bullets'. More as it develops, folks, and as long as I'm able to broadcast. From Europe, this is Cindy Taylor, reporting."_

Her segment ended and the window closed, automatically returning TinTin and Gordon to WNN's colorful menu screen. Scott's fiancée was infected? 42,000 people had died? The swimmer went cold, trying not to imagine Anika hidden away someplace, hoping desperately that he'd burst in and save her.

Royce and the rest of his mates… they'd been ill when he left in Thunderbird 2. Hung-over or flu-ish, as they'd all thought. Except that they'd actually been caught up in a terrorist attack, at a stupid, bloody nightclub...

...And only Gordon had gotten away to receive the cutting-edge medical assistance of International Rescue. The rest of his team was back in Madrid, possibly dying. Gordon's fists clenched. He _had_ to get back on his feet again, soon. He had to find some way to help.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Spain, in the basement of an IR safe house-_

Cindy Taylor had a headache, and a deeper-than-ever conviction. Loosing her dark hair from its ponytail, the reporter headed for a nearby concrete sink to splash water in her face and wash off the heavy makeup. She wasn't well, being out of sorts and feverish, and worse yet realizing that it was her own damn fault.

Part of the job, though, and proof positive that she had no business at all having babies. Children need their parents, not a pair of adventure hounds. And even adopted older kids would require a stable home. Much as it hurt to admit this, she was better off facing the truth, and maybe Scott Tracy was better off without _her._

Cold water dripped from Cindy's face and hands, cloudy with smeared face paint. She examined herself in a wall-mounted mirror, seeing shadowed eyes and pale cheeks. Realistically, she looked like hell and felt worse.

Realistically, unless she got her ass to Atlanta, where the CDC was planning to test their cure on Roger Thorpe and John Tracy, she was likely to die. Doctor Floyd, too, was in danger. Though she tried to hide it, the older woman was having a hell of a time moving around.

For a moment, Cindy wavered. After all, she was supposed to be getting married in a few months. There was an all-important story to cover, though, and Cindy would _still_ no more desert her post than Scott would have abandoned his. Hopefully, he'd understand her decision to stay, but there was no way to tell for certain. Dreading Scott's reaction, she'd severed their laptop link an hour ago.

Cindy watched as water dripped from her hands and down the sink drain, carrying away mascara, blush and perhaps a few tears. Whatever happened, she was here to stay.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_A bit later, at a US government medical research facility in Georgia-_

It threatened to be a very rough day for John Tracy and Roger Thorpe. For everyone's safety, they had to be isolated during the initial testing phase of Cho's virus, and medical trials were a hell of a thing to face alone.

Weird… On the Moon, John had narrowly avoided having Red Path try their second-stage pathogen on him. Here in Atlanta, he'd practically strolled in and volunteered. Flown, rather. Both men had been dropped off in Georgia by Thunderbird 1, with International Rescue making a careful show of handing the astronauts over to NASA and the CDC.

Kim Cho and Pete McCord had come along as well, though they were here to debrief and consult, rather than test the first-run bacteriophage. Linda was still on the island with Janie. To hell with regulations. He'd tear through the red tape later. For now, his wife and child required shelter, and that meant Tracy Island.

Roger and John had been rushed through the normal recovery examinations. Blood pressure, pulse rate, temperature and white blood cell count were about all they had time for. Then, after a brief parting handshake, Tracy and Thorpe were conducted to different lab rooms.

They _had_ to be separated to prevent cross-contamination, but closed circuit television provided company of sorts, and each had been allowed to bring with him a media device loaded with pictures and family messages. In image, at least, everyone who mattered was there.

Also… John had additional company in the form of a quantum entity. She warmed his ID chip, flickered the lights and shuffled the images on his MP5, but real communication wasn't possible until long after a white-suited lab tech murmured _'Good luck, sir,'_ and signaled John to lower his head for the first dose of medicine. The stuff was delivered as an inhaled mist, through a clear plastic breath mask.

John and Roger were to be dosed three times, with a separation of six hours between each application. The mist was chilly and it stung, smelling faintly of… well, something like mint. The sensation wasn't unpleasant. It reminded him of standing at the base of a waterfall, inhaling a fog of medicated droplets. Lowered his body temperature, though.

One by one, the doses were administered. After each, John was required to lie down in his small room and be monitored. Like everyone else, to wait. John didn't have it in him to pray. He was doing this to salvage NASA's reputation and to help identify a cure for what Red Path had unleashed. He had no second thoughts, and no pleas to file with the over-system. Elsewhere, Roger Thorpe was equally resolute, though more wistful about it all.

It's a funny thing, though. You can only lie down on thin white sheets in a high-sided chrome bed for so long. Eventually, you start to grow restless.

For some reason, John recalled the two-hundred dollars he'd promised to spend on pizza for the New York Power and Light crew in Hudson. _Damn._

"Five," John sub-vocalized. He was lying on his side with his head resting on his folded left arm. Less pressure from embedded biomed sensors, that way.

A wall monitor flickered, meaning that he'd gotten her attention.

"I need you to order twenty large pizzas. Ten cheese, five pepperoni and, um… five Hawaiian, I guess."

(This last made him wince a little because, despite Alan's wrong-headed assessment, pineapple had no business on a pizza.)

"Order from whichever shop is closest to central Hudson Valley, and have the pizzas delivered to the New York Power and Light office there. No message, besides 'thank you'. Understood?"

Something flashed on the monitor screen then, too quickly for him to consciously react. He was left feeling curiously assured, knowing that the situation was under control. Five would do as he asked, and fifteen mystified workers would soon get a free lunch. A good thing, too, because it was important to keep your promises, to look after friends and replace whatever you took.

...Only this time, John wasn't quite fast or alert enough.

Every few hours after the last dose, his blood was drawn and various fluid samples were collected. Other than that, all he did was lie around and wait for news from the war inside. Laboratory virus versus bacteria, winner takes all.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Tracy Island, at about the same time-_

Jeff had been vague and short with her, of late, and Lady Penelope had the very distinct impression that she'd lost a bit of pull with him. Possibly, John had proven abler in his own defence than she'd anticipated, though it seemed unlikely. He was, after all, in something of a bind; certain at any moment to request her assistance.

At any rate, a house-wide general quarantine allowed her to keep clear of the worried family (whom she wasn't at all keen to encounter). All that she met with were reprogrammed maintenance bots, doing their bit to serve tea and whatnot.

Curiosity eventually drove the young noblewoman to sit down and check the email in her secret account. She'd hoped for a message from Parker, or John, but instead received a truly horrendous shock.

Like any Red Path inductee, she'd been required long since to provide the name, image and verified location of three 'hostages'. While not in physical custody, each of these people lived unknowingly at the centre of Red Path's cross-hairs. Should an operative displease the organization, one at a time, their hostaged folk would begin to die.

According to the picture which opened before her that day, the first had already done so.

16


	48. 48: Bed Rest

Hi. Very short, epilogue to follow.

**48: Bed Rest**

_Unhappily confined to the Tracy Island infirmary-_

Occasional visits from TinTin, Alan, Fermat and his smuggled dog helped to enliven matters, but otherwise, Gordon Tracy was at wit's end and no mistake. Back on Thunderbird 2, he'd at last thought to check his public email. Rather stupid to wait so long, but he'd been ill, and wasn't particularly clever to begin with. (In his own estimation, at least. Others might have said different.)

At any rate, there'd been nothing at all from Royce, Erik, Damien or the rest of his team; not even the usual badly spelt _'Where the bloody hell are you, for F's sake?'_ letter from McMahon. Anika had written him, though, the day after he'd been picked up by Virgil in Thunderbird 2. English was not her first language, so the phrasing took a bit of working out, but the gist of her letter was this:

_Gordon, everyone is being very sick, and we are told to evacuate. I have been hurriedly to your dorm, but there is no one there who will come to the door for my knocking. Are you well? Please, please write me quickly back and say. I love you and will not go from Madrid until I learn where you are._

_With very much for always love, _

_Your Anika_

Of course, he'd replied the instant he opened and read her message, with TinTin beside to offer critical _'love you, too'_ advice. And...nothing.

Sick as two sorts of wretched, scabby dog, he'd checked his email every few hours since, but there came no reply. Nor could he get through to her cell phone, or Royce's, because the system was overwhelmed by a right tidal wave of attempted calls. Gordon Tracy was far from the only one with friends and loved ones in Europe, damn the luck. Adding to his unease, Cindy Taylor's WNN broadcasts had ceased, together with Spain's state media. A few Ham radio operators were still messaging from Andorra, but they had very little information about Madrid.

John or Brains might have managed something, but both were otherwise engaged, and his father had made it known that Gordon was not to trouble himself with anything but healing up. Right, then. Nothing for it, but to haul himself up by the bootstraps and head to Madrid. She needed him. He knew it, and with a bit of help from Alan, Gordon meant to respond.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_A small observation room at a government medical research facility-_

The two astronauts' progress was being monitored by representatives of Springfield Pharmaceutical, NASA, USAMRID, the World Health Organization and the Centers for Disease Control. Nor were they the _only_ interested parties. Acting President Murasaki was following events here and in Europe by satellite link, with terrible decisions riding on the success of Kim Cho's engineered viruses and the immune response of Roger Thorpe and John Tracy.

The result wasn't pretty, for several reasons. First, neither man was an ideal patient. The Marine was big and powerful, while John _never_ turned sick gracefully. Not once had he simply lain there with a folded towel on his forehead, looking wanly attractive while his ouchies were attended to by adoring females. (Though it would have been nice.) Also, there were marked side effects.

See... everything was good, until suddenly it _wasn't._ A fever started like a bomb in his chest and spread outward from there, violently fast. His skin grew bright red and began to prickle. His heart rate trebled and his muscles started cramping like he'd been shot up with cryo-protectant, again.

Heat rose up, so intense that he threw off the sheets and then flung himself out of bed for bruising contact with the cold tile floor. Raging thirst followed after, and John would have ripped open the IV bag and gulped its contents, if he could have reached the damned thing.

Other stuff going on, though. Alarms shrilled and doors slammed open. He heard running footsteps and, somewhere, Roger's voice shouting wildly in English, Klingon and Samoan. Not the only thing happening, either, because the heart monitor was overhead and it stopped beeping to display a blurry text message. Something about Taylor and Doctor Floyd.

"What…?"

People were trying to lift him off that nice, cold tile. _Bastards._

"Hell, no! Screw that. Bring them out of there, now. Dispatch team… if you have to… with some of the… phage."

His bed was like an inferno and he wanted nothing touching him, especially a goddam orderly. Struggling, John managed to hit somebody, or maybe just the IV stand. Hard to tell.

He heard,

"Delirious…"

But they didn't know about Five. Didn't know (because he hadn't told anyone) that she'd been shadowing Cho's work and, by his order, had commandeered an automated bio-chem lab. There were gallons of bootleg cure virus available, if… say… the stuff actually worked. Had to hope so, because it seemed that time was just about up for Gordon, Taylor and Doctor Floyd. Maybe everyone else, too.

"Execute," he said to the heart monitor, before heat like reentry made thought and speech impossible. Before pain from knotted muscles, and stupid effing doctors with shots got in the way. She'd comply though, the best way she knew how.

One of the few, pure things he knew was this: Five loved him, and would do whatever he said.


	49. 49: Epilogue

**49: Epilogue**

Scott Tracy it was who led the IR medical-rescue team into Spain after Cindy and Doctor Floyd. He'd been forewarned of the danger when she cut off their link and stopped broadcasting. Then, his supposedly medicated brother had wrist-commed him to say that the reporter and physician required extraction. Must have been a pre-recorded message, because John was in full uniform and sash, and he appeared perfectly groomed. Strange… but John was an oddly talented guy. Leave it at that.

Scott received coordinates from his brother at the very same time that both astronauts were reported as having slipped into shock. He left Virgil and Jeff at home pacing the floor, taking off in Thunderbird 1 to gather an operative team and head for distant Spain.

It would have been nice to concentrate… to think only of getting to Cindy… but other things kept intruding. The FBI wanted to speak with Alan. Dr. Pryce from the CDC wanted to know how the hell Gordon had left Europe for the south Pacific when his plane was still in the hangar and all public transport was blocked. Meanwhile, the police officer/ operative who'd tried kidnapping Alan continued to elude capture… but his car turned up by the side of the road, on fire, and a team dispatched to his apartment found the place ransacked. Added to all this was the news that Julio… the young man who'd held Scott at gunpoint in New York… was about to face his bail hearing.

Like his father, Scott Tracy was subsisting these days on coffee, antacid tablets, checklists and cold sandwiches. He could have used Penelope's help, but she'd vanished, just like that; quitting the island between dawn and morning without a word to anyone.

Thunderbird 1 was fast, and the skies over Western Europe depressingly free of air traffic, but Scott _still _felt like he was swimming backward through mud. He could not touch down directly, but had to hold the Bird steady in midair while Ahmet Khalid and Natalya Camacho were winched down into the walled courtyard of safe-house four, in Salamanca.

Any other time, he'd have been challenged. Police, military, news crews… _someone_ would have reacted to a big silver rocket plane hovering like a dragonfly over the city's old quarter. It made a tense, hard knot in Scott's stomach that no one and nothing reacted. As far as he could see, the streets were clear, the houses still and silent. Thunderbird 1's rescue basket went down with the sun, apparently unnoticed.

Scott watched from above as Ahmet and Natalya leapt over the side and raced into the house, using their IR pass codes to get past its electronic defenses. They wore hazard suits and carried an air tank charged with bootlegged cure virus, which Scott had been advised to use as a last resort. Understood; though he might not have a choice.

So, Scott waited, forcing himself to focus and fly the damn plane. One minute… two…

What would he do if Cindy and Doctor Floyd were already dead? Why had he let them go out on such a damn-fool mission in the first place? And what was taking so long? It required every bit of discipline he had, not to call for an update.

_Leave them alone,_ Scott told himself. _Let them do their jobs._

Three minutes… four…

Gordon had people out here, somewhere, too; his girlfriend and teammates. On a sudden impulse, Scott called his brother (now deeply unconscious, according to Pete McCord). Once again, inexplicably, he was answered.

_"Current whereabouts of Anika Peralta and European Men's swim team will be researched. Researching location. Location found."_

Coordinates followed, but damn few of them. The girl was still alive, and one or two of Gordon's teammates. Otherwise, John couldn't come up with much.

Five minutes…

"I'm, uh… not talking to John, am I?" he said to the flawless blond image. It replied,

_"John Tracy is currently off-line. Requests and commands filed with this entity will be processed as though received by John Tracy."_

For some reason, this felt like a betrayal. Like reaching for someone's hand and getting a dried branch, instead.

The wind kicked up, forcing Scott to fight Thunderbird 1 for awhile, but when his craft stabilized (six minutes, thirty seconds) he said,

"Okay, so what do I call you, then?"

_"This entity is known to John Tracy as Five. This entity has been instructed to cooperate with Tracy 1.0, Scott Aaron Tracy."_

Huh. Five… as in _Thunderbird 5?_ Evidently, John hadn't taken their father's artificial intelligence ban very seriously. Any cave in a blizzard, though.

Ahmet and Natalya burst from the safe-house before Scott could frame his next question. They were carrying a person apiece, air-masked and wrapped in warm blankets. From this angle, Scott couldn't read expressions. He watched anxiously, finally hitting the comm to ask,

"How are they?"

Natalya responded briefly,

_"Not good, sir. The doctor is pretty far gone, but both women need immediate help."_

Scott could hear Ahmet in the background, speaking encouragingly to his former South Pole Station comrade. _"Hang in there, Sharon…"_ That sort of thing.

"Right," Scott commanded. "Get them aboard and stabilized. We've got a couple more stops to make."

If there was a God in heaven, and He cared about fighter pilots, Cindy and Doctor Floyd would live. If swimmers mattered, too, then Thunderbird 1 would reach Madrid in time to do some good.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_31 December, Tracy Island. Around 10:35 PM-_

When things change, they often do so quite suddenly. Scott left the house that night because his tuxedo was suffocating him, and because he didn't much feel like opening presents or receiving sympathy.

There was a well-marked path from the lower pool deck to the beach. Loosening his bow tie, Scott slipped away from the others and headed down to the shore. Churning water, bright moonlight and think-time were what he needed now, not bracing pats and kind words. He had a lot on his mind.

A "partial success" his father had called their response to the space flu situation, which was pretty much the same way NASA rated the Ares III mission. A qualified success.

Scott made his way to the water's lacy, moving edge, aware of his three-thousand dollar Italian shoes, but not caring. Partial success meant that the phage worked, but Spain, France and Portugal had been decimated. It meant that Sharon Floyd had been too old to survive the battle between virus and bacteria, and had breathed her last with a quiet smile and a "Thank you, Aaron".

It meant that NASA's funding was slashed so deeply that Ares IV might never get off the ground. It meant that John and his crewmates were safe at home, quietly 'retired'. That Red Path was crippled, but still dangerous.

Partial success translated to lingering weakness for Gordon Tracy, whose full strength might never return (try as he might to conceal it). It meant personal loss, as well, for though Anika Peralta, Nathan Croft and Royce Fellows had survived, many others hadn't. He was in Europe now, spending time with his surviving friends before reporting to the WASP recruitment station.

As for Scott… partial success. Cindy had recovered, but she wanted to break off their engagement, and wouldn't explain why. He'd convinced her to wait, though. That was something. Maybe a few weeks away from it all would clear her head and her heart. Maybe.

Scott was arranging arguments in his mind to the rumble and hush of the surf, when he heard a scattering of rocks and happy babble. Someone was coming. Turning, the fighter pilot saw his brother John, with small Janie clinging tight to his neck. The astronaut's jacket, cummerbund and tie were gone, and there were little jelly handprints all over his shirt front.

"Hey," Scott greeted him. "Had enough family togetherness?"

John shrugged.

"I guess. It was getting pretty emotional in there, and then Junior started fussing, so I left. Babies are supposed to fall asleep by 10:00, aren't they?"

Outraged, Janie began wriggling in her father's arms.

"Daddy! I's _not_ a baby! I could _walk_ now!"

Her big eyes were quite dark in the moonlight, her expression deeply hurt.

"Tell Unca Scott I's not a baby, daddy! _Tell_ him!"

"Okay," John agreed easily. "You're not a baby, but you're still damn noisy. Sorry. _Dang_ noisy."

"Tha's okay, daddy. I know you didn' mean a say it, 'cause tha's a bad, bad word, an' we don' say bad words no more."

John was under strict orders to clean up his act, including language. He required frequent reminders, though, which Janie was glad to provide. Scott would have liked to hold the child, but she was still wary of most non-crewmates. Only TinTin and Gordon could lift and cuddle the girl, who was gradually adjusting to life on Earth.

Together, Scott and John walked to a safer bit of beach, where Janie's father could set her down.

"One of these days," said John, watching his daughter wobble intently around him, "I'm going to stop overreacting to stupid shi… _stuff_, like scents. Someone was doing laundry the other day, and this fabric softener air blast got vented outside. I stood around like an idiot for five minutes, enjoying the smell. If someone hadn't turned off the dryer, I'd probably still be there. Everything smells the same after a few months in space. But here…"

He smiled a little.

"I get distracted just walking past the kitchen."

Understandably. Grandma hadn't yet broached the subject of John's emergency wedding and sudden child. Probably, she was waiting for a long talk with Linda, who was almost as guarded with the rest of the family as Janie. In the meantime, though, she overfed all three of them.

"Eh. You'll get used to it," Scott promised, reaching a hand out to steady small Jane. She clung to him for a moment before setting off again, face as intent as an athlete's.

"…Or else you'll be back in Thunderbird 5, tinkering with that computer of yours."

It was an opening, but John didn't react. Not to that one, or mention of dad or Doctor Floyd. Some things, he just wouldn't talk about. Switching topics, Scott said,

"You know that kid who held me up? Julio?"

"Yeah."

"Well… I was thinking that maybe I'd take him under my wing, sort of. Provide lawyers and a proper education. Move his family to better housing, even. Stupid, huh?"

John stepped closer to Janie, who was throwing big handfuls of sand at the oncoming waves.

"No," he decided, shaking his head. "Sort of unrealistic, but not stupid. Anytime you have a chance to make a difference, you probably ought to try."

"Sure," Scott agreed heavily. "And if you've got any idea how to make a difference with Cindy, let me know."

John collected the not-a-baby, who by this time was well gummed with spray and black sand.

"She likes to argue," he mused. "Maybe you could try not agreeing with her."

Scott blinked.

"What if she leaves?"

"She already has."

Scott folded both arms across his chest.

"You've been in touch with her?"

"We talk, yeah."

"And…?"

"She loves you."

Why, exactly, he felt like something broke wide open and released a hundred thousand gallons of sorrow, Scott couldn't say.

"So… why'd she cut out? The kid thing, again?"

"Partly," John allowed, shifting his daughter for a ride upon his shoulders. "Females are foreign territory, Scott. Marrying one doesn't make me lord high ambassador to the species."

"Understood, little brother. But… if I tell you something, you'll tell _her_?"

They began heading back along the strand, for it was nearly midnight.

"Yeah. If you want me to," John replied.

Once again, partial success. Said Scott,

"Okay, tell her I love her, and that when she's figured things out, I'll be waiting, in a… competitive, _argumentative, _way.

John chuckled. He couldn't look around very well, because Janie's small head was resting sleepily atop his own, but…

"I'll shout it at her," he promised.

Nothing like a brother to help get the job done. Scott was just about to say 'thank you', when a flare of red, green and cobalt-blue fireworks shrilled into the air and began bursting above the house.

Janie stirred a bit, raising her head to say,

"Look, daddy… 'Splosions."

"Yeah," he nodded. "Happy New Year."

They paused halfway up the path to watch Brains' annual display. Scott, hands deep in his trousers pockets, said,

"Let's hope it's a good one."


	50. 50: Addendum

Edited.

**Addendum: Three Women**

_Determination-_

She'd been very much younger and more foolish when the notion took her to work for Red Path. It had seemed a good bargain at the time; what her paramour would have termed "another iron in the fire".

Together with British Intelligence and International Rescue, Red Path provided quick money, high adventure and a sense of living beyond the ordinary pale. In Lady Penelope's view, she didn't _break_ the rules so much as simply flit _above _them, for a noblewoman had only herself, her peers and the king to answer to. Trifling dangers such as the granting of hostages had hardly signified, for Penny did not intend to get caught. Yet… she'd been found out at last, and an innocent person had died because of it.

Riding in the back of a bullet-proof limousine, Penelope lit the cigarette at the end of its long holder and switched on her personal comm. A few keystrokes later, she was gazing once more at an absolutely dreadful picture. It'd surface in all the tabloids, soon, with equally beastly headlines: _Francois, designer to the smart set, DEAD!_

Suicide, they'd undoubtedly proclaim it, as he'd plunged twelve stories to shatter like an egg at the base of an elevator shaft. Except that he had no reason to kill himself. Business could hardly be improved upon, and his latest show had been a positive triumph. Also, she'd received the picture and message well before police alerts went forth. No, Francois… her friend and favorite designer… was dead because of _her._

There were two further 'hostages'. One, Elspeth Morgan, was her lady's maid. But Elspeth she'd already whisked off to safety in Scotland. The third hostage…

Penelope blew a cloud of smoke and shifted about on the limousine's capacious leather seat, seeking comfort without wrinkling her 18,000-Euro dress.

…the third hostage was an old chum; one she'd lost touch with, but retained a certain fondness for. Penelope had forced herself not to call, for she was traveling in disguise in hopes of confusing pursuit. No sense revealing herself with a foolish conversation, then.

The limousine slowed as Parker pulled off the main thoroughfare and onto a smaller, private road. Her windows were darkened for privacy and thought, but Penelope could fill in from memory the crumbling masonry, twining ivy and stone lions.

Another time, she'd have requested John's help, but no more. Matters between them had changed. With his needless elimination of Stirling, his marriage to that _woman_, and Penny's strange memory lapse concerning John's past, her former associate was no longer an option. She'd had something "on him". That much, Penelope recalled. There remained, yet, a sense of satisfaction, of "well, that's settled, then" smugness attached to certain blurred and missing bits of their past.

He'd done something to her memory. She _knew_ it. Somehow, by drug or hypnosis, John had found a way to make her forget. Obviously so; for, in place of the missing information, she now bore a powerful, conditioned refusal to betray International Rescue or even to mention them.

_Damn him!_ However had he managed it? And damn him still further for mattering so much, yet caring so little! But, first things first.

There was a Deathmark upon her for the destruction of Red Path's plans and leadership. Together with the hostage situation, this was of primary importance, and would have to be dealt with immediately.

That done (and once settled in Tewkesbury), she'd dispatch Parker to destroy _Goliath_ and its inconvenient ghosts. Only then, when she'd settle accounts with the new leader of Red Path, might Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward turn her attention to other matters and different men.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Concern-_

How do you follow up Mars? How do you top being one of an elite and close-knit crew, picked from all the Earth to explore another world? For the first time in many years, Linda Bennett had found a sense of family. She'd had an important role, not a mere job. She'd helped plant flag and humanity on the Red Planet.

Now, unwillingly retired, she was… what? The Tracy family's official doctor? International Rescue's dedicated EMT? Or simply John's wife?

She'd been married for close to three years, had a child, even. And yet, she'd never so much as cooked a private meal for her husband and daughter. She had no personal home and an uncertain future. What, really, was she supposed to do next? Accept the Tracy triple-platinum credit rating and shop herself insensible? Take up knitting?

'Grandma', the fierce and influential matriarch of the Tracy family, wanted to speak with her privately. For that matter, so did John's father, Jeff. So far, she'd avoided both little chats, but couldn't do so forever. Sooner or later, Linda was going to have to discuss what had happened; how she'd become pregnant when supposedly unable, and how she'd then agreed to marry the baby's father in an extremely rushed civil ceremony on Mars. How… despite all the weirdness… she genuinely loved him.

Tracy Island was certainly a beautiful place and John's suite more than big enough for two-and-a-half people. He'd even suggested showing her around Thunderbird 5, once construction was finished. But, was this home? Was the end of all her astronaut training and preparation a private island in the South Pacific?

There was something more bothering Linda. Something inside of her _hurt,_ as though she'd taken an awful, heartbreaking gut-punch. Something about John. For the life of her, though, Linda Bennett-Tracy couldn't remember what... or who... it was.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Happiness and Exploration-_

Freedom had a taste like sunlight and fresh pineapple; a little sweet, warm, bright and tart. It thrilled along the spine and caused sudden bursts of silly chatter and grateful hugs.

TinTin Kyrano feared coming close to no one, now. Not Alan, Scott nor Jeff Tracy, himself. Not when a mere glance aside or 'volume up' on her iPod might soften the impact of their presence. Nor did she dread returning to school in Tahiti. Everything… the universe entire… seemed bright, fresh and filled with hope. Surely, school would be, as well.

She ought to have been more sober, the girl knew, after such a trial as the world had endured from Red Path. But here was the little one, calling her "Timpin" and toddling up with both arms out-flung. How could she not cover Janie's face with kisses and hark to her latest request for swimming? (The closest thing to microgravity on "Urf".)

Only Gordon's return from Europe could improve matters, and he would not be much longer away. TinTin scooped the golden-haired little girl off of the tiled floor, tossed and caught her.

"Very well, ma petite! We shall once more descend to the pool, you and I, despite my continuing dampness. See how I am enslaved to your whims, terrible infant? I know… I know… you are not a baby!"

Janie regarded her most seriously. Snuggling her little face against TinTin's long neck, she replied,

"I din' say anythin', Timpin. You could call me 'baby', if you want."

Auntie Cho always had, and maybe things down here weren't so bad, after all.


	51. 51: Afterward

Thanks ED, Tikatu, Sam and Cath!

**Afterward: Two Men**

_Recovery-_

First, he'd looked in on Royce, his best mate since the days of short pants and street footie. They'd grown up together, partly in Sheffield, but mostly in Olympic natatoriums and dorm rooms all over the world, having competed on the same swim team. But all that was ended now. Weak as the space flu had left them, it would be a stretch for either young man to complete 3 laps, much less swim as they'd done the month before.

Royce, as it happened, was letting his hair grow. No longer bald, he remained very tall, quite rangy, tattooed and good-natured as a fire brigade of holy saints. As they walked along a cobbled street in Madrid, on their way to the converted hostel where Anika was to be found, Gordon asked,

"It's back t' school f'r you, then?"

Royce squinted against the afternoon sunlight and shook his head. Both wore their dark blue team jackets, for the day was cold.

"No, mate. 'Tis well out of it, I am. Thought I'd join me dad on that polar rig ee's runnin'… the North Star. Give wildcattin' a go, as it were. You?"

Gordon looked up at his taller friend. He said,

"I'm joinin' WASP. After all, I _did_ promise, and it's not as though…"

Well, it wasn't as if he had any future left in competitive swimming. _TinTin_ could easily have outdistanced him, or wee Janeling, even. All he had left were a few friends, his family and his life. Without a team or a coach, why bother trying to regain his old form?

"Aye," Royce cut into his thoughts, placing a hand on Gordon's shoulder. "Say n' more, lad."

They'd spoken with Nathan, briefly. Thin and pale as he was, the newly-minted singer/actor would be reduced to playing drug addicts and street people, but at least he had something important to do.

Sunlight poured itself between buildings and along the slick cobbles, but didn't warm anything. On the bright side, there were a handful of folk moving about and some shops open, though not as many as Before. Both young men bought things they didn't need, sweets and the like, to help out a bit.

"Would it be terribly whingy of me t' say that I'll miss th' rotten old tyrant?" Gordon asked suddenly, turning away from a flower cart with his hands full.

Royce shook his head. Even smiled a little, sending a spear of sunlight flashing off his gold teeth.

"Not a bit of it, though ee'd doubtless name us a pair of malingerin' poofters f'r sittin' out practice, like this."

Kevin McMahon would be missed, though in life he'd not have believed it possible.

At the converted hostel, number 16 Via San Pedro, Royce paused.

"You go on, lad. Just 'ang about on th' stoop f'r a bit, I will. 'Ere."

He handed Gordon the sweets and magazines he'd purchased.

"…Find a lass what asn't any visitors an' give 'er some cheer."

"Right."

He wanted to hug his friend, but Royce had leaned down to pet a small dog, and besides, one simply didn't go about embracing other men. It wasn't proper. So, he just accepted the gifts and smiled.

"Will do. Back in a bit."

Up the stone steps and inside, Gordon inquired of a harried-looking nurse and received a room number. In ruddy _Spanish,_ of course, which took a bit of working out, but eventually he'd got the right room, then knocked and went in. She was there.

_"Gordon!"_

The lass attempted to leap from her seat by the bay window. Gordon Tracy had to drop everything he was carrying to lunge forward and catch her. Still strong enough for that, at least, thank God. And thank God, again, that she was safe and relatively well, with most of her own family off recovering in Catalonia.

He pressed Anika to him as tightly as such fragility could withstand, swinging slightly back and forth, as though holding a child. She felt tiny and slender-boned, like a baby bird one might cup in the hands while lifting it back to its nest. Alive, though; still breathing, moving and kissing him. Here, not gone and away.

"Gordon, I worry so terribly! You were not answering, and people said that the swimming team…"

The swim team _what_? Had practically bloody well started this nightmare? Were mostly all dead? Gordon carried her back to the chair and then knelt alongside, inanely offering the one thing he still held; a packet of sweets.

"I'm right as rain, luv. Just a bit weary, is all. My folk came f'r me before I quite realized what was happenin', and then I lost consciousness. But as soon as I got th' message, I forced m'self up and out of bed, determined t' find you. I was on m' way, but… Good job International Rescue got here first, eh?" For Scott's team had actually saved her.

Anika placed a hand on his face, hushing Gordon's explanation. Her tawny hair was pulled back and her big eyes clear as green water.

"Si. They were very helpful, and I thank them, but you are much more important. I knew that if you were alive you would fight _anything_ to come here, as you did the fire. Only, I worried that…"

She couldn't finish the sentence, being a lass and only 17, at that. Instead, she embraced him.

Sometimes, you are gifted to know a precious thing; to have someone truly valuable and rejoice in the having. This, Gordon realized, was love.

"Listen…" he said, pulling free just a bit and opening the sweet packet for her (caramels, which he'd honestly no idea whether she even liked).

"…I've made up my mind t' join th' world submarine corps. It'll mean an enlistment away of four years, or so; more if I enter th' officer training course. But… um… you'd wait f'r me, would you?"

Judging by the kiss, yes. Very much and forever, she'd wait.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

_Renewal-_

Virgil Tracy did finally make it to Mexico, where a very excited, very happy Teena Redfeather awaited him (or Zulayl Rojas, as she preferred to be known professionally). Central and South America had largely been spared the ravages of space flu, though not the worry. People were out and about the towns and cities doing normal business, but they _did_ tend to jump and stare if you sneezed aloud.

The ride from airport to Aztec archaeological find was interesting, because Teena rarely looked where she was driving, and scorned any speed below fifty miles an hour. Virgil hadn't counted on quite so much boulder-strewn adventure, and he was deeply grateful when the old van clattered up to a circle of nylon tents. It coughed its rusty last and coasted to a halt, scattering a small herd of spotted goats in the process.

"Wow," was all he could say, his handsome face deathly pale.

Teena grinned at him. She wore a hand-beaded denim work shirt and khaki pants. Her black hair was in disarray, and road grime from the cranked-open windows smudged her face, but she was beautiful.

"C'mon, big guy!" she teased. "I know you've had wilder rides than _that."_

(Officially, _no._ Teena knew nothing about IR. Unofficially, how could she miss it?)

"Maybe…" he agreed doubtfully. "But never with a crazier driver. Or a prettier one."

Teena blushed, and he playfully mussed her long hair. Virgil hadn't packed much beyond the promised shovel, checkbook and beer, so he didn't have a great deal of luggage. Just as well, because the rattle-trap white van had used up its final reserves carrying two people and a rucksack. He didn't think it had one more trip left in its steaming engine, but you never knew. A little oil, some TLC…

Teena introduced him around, dragging Virgil up first to Professor Roth, who shook "Mr. Tracy's" hand dozens of times and thanked him in advance for the impressive donation. Virgil glanced over at Teena, who grimaced and shrugged. Evidently, promises had been made.

There were other people present. Community college students, mostly, though some were professional archaeologists. Virgil encountered many of them and even managed to place names with faces and personalities, like this:

Professor Roth: tan, dusty, blue-eyed and eager.

James Gibbs: blond and square-faced, very serious.

Shasta Carver: graying, thin, big-eyed and… well… _odd._

Lawrence Enwright: dark-haired, short and talkative.

…And so on.

The site itself was little more than a deep hole; a sort of flooded cavern between two hills, surrounded by twisted cottonwoods and badly eroded stelae. Virgil was a certified diver (and giver of funds) so he was allowed to join the archaeological team at their work. They had to don full dive gear and be lowered by a Jeep-front winch to a wooden platform about sixty feet below the Earth's surface.

The temperature outside was scorching; the sun like a blistering curse. Here, rock walls and draping foliage robbed the light of its power to sear. At the platform, all they got were greenish-gold flickers and wavering light bands. Very pretty, in a remote, solemn kind of way.

From the wooden platform, you put on your mask and regulator, then stepped off into sixty-five degree water, acclimated, joined your buddy and dove on in. The sacrificial well was quite deep, its bottom covered with treasures dedicated to Tlaloc, god of rain and fertility. Slow, deliberate movements and the sweeping beams of their headlamps revealed stone weapons, shattered pottery, bits of worked jade and bones; lots of bones. Sadly, many of the drowned skeletons were pitifully small. Children, still wrapped in bits of tattered finery. Tlaloc was a ferociously hungry god.

Every item had to be photographed and catalogued, its position precisely recorded on the site grid. Hard, painstaking work, but very rewarding. By the end of his first dive, Virgil was exhausted… and nervous.

Nightfall was near, bringing the chance to be with Teena, if this was the time, and that's what both of them wanted. Big ifs, with no easy answer and plenty of consequences.


End file.
